the planets bend between us
by the joker and the queen
Summary: In the world of WMHS, there are two things you can count on: Rachel Berry is always on top, and losers like Noah Puckerman are always on the bottom. But when McKinley's badass queen collides with the king of the gleeks...it's a whole new universe.
1. Chapter 1

**Authors' note: ****Hi, I'm Lori (aka joker to the thief) and this is Mags (aka maggiequeen). We've been working on this fill for linty_goodness over at the LJ puckrachel drabble meme for _months_ and finally (FINALLY), we're ready to release our baby out into the world. It's a multi-chapter full of Glee goodness and familiar faces, and we hope you enjoy it. So welcome to our AU bubble! Join us, won't you?**

**PS, if we owned Glee, you better believe you'd know it ;)**

* * *

The tiny brunette is tap-tap-tapping her shoe to an internal rhythm as she waits in the dark interior of McKinley High's auditorium. She's been waiting here so long, she is pretty sure all the exposure to this environment was seriously lowering her cool factor. But taking a good look around, she allows herself an evil grin. A few hours from now and this haven for loserdom would be the scene of the most legendary prank she had ever done. Just then, the auditorium door opens and in scurries a hooded figure, heading straight towards her. "And of course he even moves like a cockroach," she mutters to herself. In a slightly louder voice, she says, "Do you have them?"

The person in front of her fidgets like a little bitch before finally nodding.

"Good. And you followed my very detailed instructions to the letter to prevent this from ever being traced back to me? No paper trail, no fingerprints, no anything?"

Repeated vigorous nodding causes the person's hoodie to slip back and reveal the reddish brown fluff that characterized one Jacob ben-Israel. "Y-yes." At her glare, he manages to squeak out a few more words. "I drove out to a store two towns over and I wore a hoodie to cover my hair and I stayed out of range of the cameras and wore gloves and used cash."

At that information and the full realization of her genius plan, she feels positively (dare she say it?) gleeful. Looking at the sad waste of DNA in front of her, she snaps her fingers. "Well, then why are you still standing around there for, Jewfro? I haven't got all day."

This seems to wake him up from his trance and he shifts about a little and clears his throat. "Well, you see…there's a teeny, tiny problem."

She turns on him so fast, he almost gets whiplash. "What?" she growls.

He gulps audibly. "There's a door that leads to the upper levels of backstage and the rafters but um, well…it's locked."

She rolls her eyes. God, why couldn't she have some minions with brains for a change? She replies in a deceptively sweet voice, "Well, Jacob, that's what I'm here for." With that, she brandishes one of her most prized possessions: her deluxe lock pick gun. Within seconds, the door is open and she is stowing her baby back in her bag. She is about to step in when a hand on her arm stops her in her tracks.

_Jacob's_ hand. On _her _arm.

She resists her automatic reaction of ripping his whole fucking arm off (because, sadly, she still needed him to pull off her plan) and turns to him with a dangerously calm expression on her face. Already, he looks like he's about to have a heart attack. Not to mention that _he's still holding on to her arm._

He quickly lets go of said appendage and visibly attempts to compose himself. "T-there's also the question of my…payment."

She doesn't censor the look of supreme disgust on her face. "A deal's a deal, fartface. You do this for me…and I'll _acknowledge_ your presence in public." At the light that appears in his eyes, she warns. "But touch me with your clammy little hands again and I'll rip your balls out through your mouth. Now start climbing."

Jacob shudders and nods, quickly dragging the extremely wieldy piece de resistance of her entire plan with him. With a finger, she tests the tautness of the nearly invisible wiring of the mechanism she had rigged for this special occasion. A glance upwards reveals the main bulk of it and a shaky Jewfro climbing to the top with his load. She frowns when she sees a weird red blinking light when she looks up but she dismisses it as just another theater thingy.

The sound of wheezing from the direction of the rafters brings her back to the matter at hand and she laughs. It was way cool having minions. At least that way, she could just sit back and watch the shit fly without getting her hands dirty or having nasty things like fingerprints lying around. Not to mention this kind of enterprise would put her in serious jeopardy of breaking at least two nails. She just had a mani-pedi done yesterday (Cherry Crush, thank you very much) and she really didn't want to ruin Mei-mei's hard work.

"And I'm supposed to just dump everything here?" cries a thin wavering voice from several feet above.

She rolls her eyes. "Yes, loserville, we've been over this. Keep up, will ya? If my calculations are correct – and they _are_ – this is gonna deliver the payload at the exact time and the exact target."

"_You _did this?" The distance is not enough to mask the note of astonishment and skepticism in the boy's voice.

Crap. She couldn't let it be known around school that she understood physics blindfolded. Next thing she knows, she'd be a (gasp) nerd. "What? You lookin' to make something of it, dweeb?" she growls, injecting the right amount of menace to her voice.

"N-n-no, of course not," he squeaks.

"Good." She glances at her watch and realizes that she only has 10 minutes left for study hall. "I'm out, loser. That thing better be full or else you'd better get used to living in dumpsters. Well, more than usual, I mean."

"I won't let you down—", scrabbling sounds and a shriek, "_Oh shit_! ...no wait, I'm okay!" Jewfro cries out. She rolls her eyes yet again, comforted in the fact that if this was her lucky day, she'd not only get an awesome prank out of it but also the possibility of Jewfro in a full-body cast. The thought alone makes her grin.

As Rachel Berry walks out of the WMHS auditorium she can barely contain the devilish laughter from spurting out of her. Noah Puckerman and his merry band of losers would never know what hit them.

* * *

"You're plotting something. You have your scheme-y face on. I'm not really sure I like it, B," declares Quinn Fabray in her signature breathy whisper.

The girl in question, who was applying another coat of lip gloss, meets her best friend's gaze in the lighted vanity mirror she had built in her locker. She doesn't say anything for a while, merely finishing her primping before tightening her Sue Sylvester-approved ponytail and fluffing the ends. Finally, she turns to face the blonde, her skirt swirling about her thighs.

"Don't worry your little head about it, Q," Rachel says with a smirk and a half-mocking pat on said head. "Let's just say this afternoon is going to be incredibly fucking interesting. Not to mention _colorful_." With one last glance at her reflection, she loops her arm around Quinn's and winks. "And don't lie…you know you love it."

Quinn tries to keep a disapproving expression on her face before finally laughing in agreement. Arm in arm, they sashay down the hallway towards third period Chemistry, their Cheerio skirts swishing a rhythm as they walk. Almost automatically, the crowd parts as they pass in a cloud of perfume and popularity.

In the world of high school, there is always a hierarchy. For those few schools that purport that they have a 'culture of acceptance and equality'…fuck that. They don't know jackshit. In William McKinley, there are the usual suspects: the jocks, the cheerleaders, the student council, the math geeks, the AV club, the drama club, the stoners, and the reform school wannabes, each clique moving up or down the hierarchy depending on the week. But in change, there are always a few constants.

One was that Quinn Fabray and Rachel Berry were always on top.

They were, without a doubt, the undisputed rulers of WMHS. Forget the jocks; one twitch of a skirt and a little 'come-hither' eyes and they were nothing more than underlings. No, the true leaders of the pack were two innocent-looking morsels of hotness in red and white, two girls as different as night and day. Quinn was the epitome of blonde perfection, WMHS's resident Queen Bee, all rainbows and unicorns and cute kittens. Everyone loved her, boys wanted her and girls wanted to be her. As for Rachel…well, no one ever messed with Rachel Berry and her fabulous evilness. A badass who managed to terrorize each year level with a sexy smile and candy apple lip gloss, her own best friend called her the love child of Darth Vader and Snow White. You either were scared to death of her or you wanted to fuck her. And sometimes, it was both.

But it wasn't always that way. Back when Rachel was still a motherless little second grader with skinned knees and a penchant for climbing trees, Davey Karofsky (a douchebag even at 8 years old) pushed her down during recess just for the fun of it. Pretty soon, all hell had broken loose at the playground of Crestview Elementary and the new girl, this angelic blond thing with pigtails and a look of fury on her face, was marching right up to Davey's face and telling him off for being a 'big old meanie'. Rachel was so surprised at someone standing up for her, she almost forgot to release Davey from the choke hold she had him in.

(What? Her dad was a Mossad-trained FBI agent who thought that little girls should know how to defend themselves.)

(Even if that meant Krav Maga lessons at 4 years old.)

From that day on, Quinn became Rachel's very best friend, her sister. They saw each other through elementary and junior high, through 6th grade homeroom and Sue Sylvester's summer cheerleading boot camp (word was it was based on Green Beret trials), through boyfriends and puberty.

Now they were deep in high school and all the crap that went with it. And if sometimes Rachel felt like the overlooked dark horse beside the golden girl, it didn't matter. Because she loved her best friend and they were in it together. The way she saw it, her best friend could have the limelight all she wanted; she preferred working her badass powers in the shadows anyway. Quinn needed to be worshipped; Rachel just needed to be feared.

As they continued walking to class, Rachel is reminded of another constant. Which was that the bottom level (like, basement low) was always, always reserved for the glee club. Oh, each member was a loser in their own right but the prize of most extreme case clearly went to one Noah Puckerman, aka the king of the gleeks.

_Speak of the devil_, she thinks as she spies him making his way down the corridor, with his trademark guitar case slung on his shoulder. To be honest, she really didn't know what to make of him most of the time. He didn't fit in anywhere. For one, there was the whole issue of having two moms, one of whom was a teacher (ugh, if that wasn't the kiss of death in high school, nothing else was). Then there was the fact that he didn't actually talk but when he did, it was like he swallowed a fucking dictionary. Practically everything out of his mouth was about songs or bands no one had even heard of or his 5-year, 10-year, even 25-year plans. He never hung out with anybody or chilled like a normal guy, which just solidified the belief that he was a fuckin' snob who thought he was better than anyone else. God, he was just…weird.

He was walking with his head down in all his flannel glory when a random meathead in a letterman's jacket bodychecks him into the locker. Instead of retaliating (you know, like a normal person would), Puckerman just sighs, adjusts his thick-framed glasses and kneels down to inspect the guitar case he had dropped in the impact. Satisfied that his guitar was fine, he stands up and runs a hand through dark, close-cropped hair.

"B, you're watching that guy again." Quinn's whisper interrupts her from her thoughts.

Puckerman's head suddenly shoots up (the unshielded look of alarm flashing behind his glasses is absolutely _delicious_) and he looks at them. Mortified to be caught looking at Noah Puckerman of all people, she sneers at him. "What are you looking at, _Puke-rman_?"

His only response is a tensing of his jaw before he starts walking away. Satisfied that a crisis was averted, Rachel slips into her customary seat in Mrs. Jones' class with a sigh. She looks at her watch and grins. Two more hours until showtime.

* * *

After lunch, all the students are herded into the auditorium like cattle. Settling in next to Quinn, Rachel spies Principal Figgins up in front with Will Schuester, the glee club director-slash-Spanish teacher. He was a nice enough dude for a teacher (even if she totally agreed with Sylvester's thoughts regarding his hair) but she thinks that clearly all that product did something to his brain because who would want to be in charge of glee club _voluntarily?_ And the way he set up this little performance for his club like he honestly thinks that it will make it _cool _somehow…she shakes her head in dismay. If he were any dumber or more naïve, he'd be Brittany.

Right on cue, in comes Santana Lopez, her fellow Cheerio and sometimes frenemy, pinky-to-pinky with Brittany Pierce. They stop at their aisle and Santana merely _looks_ at the poor freshman Cheerio unlucky enough to be occupying the seat next to Rachel's.

By the time she sits down, Rachel idly observes. "You sure you wanna sit there? I think you scared the poor girl so much, she peed in her pants."

Santana waves off her concern. "Bitch, please. Girl's bladder wouldn't even think of doing that in my presence."

"Hey B! Hi Q!" Brittany enthusiastically says, as if they hadn't seen each other just the period before.

Rachel rolls her eyes covertly but joins Quinn in greeting the blonde. Sometimes, she wondered about these two. You couldn't find a weirder pairing. Santana was a bitch for the sake of being a bitch, the poster child for Skanks Unlimited, while Brittany was just a sweetheart. Dumber than oatmeal but a complete sweetheart nonetheless. Sure, she knew about the 'sweet lady kisses' that happened whenever Santana couldn't find anyone new (or, you know, breathing) to warm her bed but most of the time, it was like they were two halves of the same person, one not being far from the other.

Pretty soon, Figgins is asking everyone to settle down, to the jeers of some of the puck heads down in front. He starts of in his droning little voice about the new school year and the plans for the next semester, blahbbity-blah-blah. While he's going on about the increased budget for the school's marching band (seriously, did they really have to have a fundraiser for feathers on their hats?), Quinn leans in.

"Donnie's been asking about you again."

Rachel rolls her eyes at the mention of Quinn's second cousin from Dalton Academy. "Please. As if I'd ever be caught dead with a guy named _Donnie_."

"Give him a chance. I mean, after that one date, he was really into you," Quinn whispers.

"Yeah well, you know me. Love 'em and leave 'em," she replies flippantly.

"Honestly," Quinn huffs, crossing her arms across her chest. "You don't want that sort of rep, B."

"Who knows, maybe I do," Rachel smirks. At that point, Figgins had turned the mike over to Schuester, who was talking on and on about the history of glee club, how they've been working hard to make it to Sectionals and if students joined, they'd be special by being part of something special.

"Yeah, like retard kind of special," Santana mocks from her left. The Cheerios and jocks in the vicinity snicker when they hear it.

Soon, Schuester is introducing New Directions and the curtains rise to a chorus of faint applause, laughter and a few boos. There are 5 people on the darkened stage dressed in red shirts, jeans and white Chucks. The lights go up with the first beats of the song and there they were, the basement level trolls of McKinley High. Puckerman is up in front, belting out the song like nobody's business.

_Just a small-town girl_

_Living in a lonely world_

Journey? Really? Okay, so maybe Puckerman can sing, big deal. But god, could they be any lamer dancing and twirling to an '80s pop (you better believe she's not calling this shit rock and roll) hit? And when the black girl goes up to sing the next verse, she cringes. Girl could be Aretha but what was Schue smoking when he had her sing this? She was like Whitney Houston on crack (well, _more_ crack anyway) with runs going where runs shouldn't have gone. Scratch what she said before; even Journey didn't deserve this wrongness.

They go through a few more verses (and honestly, it's making her head hurt that the dude in the wheelchair was a better dancer than the rest of them) before it all mercifully ends. They are bowing to the sound of a few sympathetic people clapping when Rachel finally perks up. It's almost time.

She grips Quinn's hand in excitement. "Get ready, Q," she whispers giddily.

_(Five) _The glosers make another bow.

_(Four)_ Schuester makes another desperate plea for members and announces the times for the next auditions.

_(Three)_ Figgins thanks the New Directions again ("_Nude Erections_," comes another witticism from Santana, and Rachel rolls her eyes.) and tells everyone that the assembly is now officially done.

_(Two)_ She sees Puckerman signal one of the stagehands to the side.

_(One)_

But instead of the curtain going down as expected, pulling on the rope sets off a chain reaction. A cable attached to the rope is released, a wire is triggered, a pulley is activated…

…and gallons and gallons and gallons of blueberry slushie is released from 5 specially-designed buckets hanging from the auditorium rafters, straight on the heads of the glee club members still on the stage. It lands with a sick, satisfying splotch and splatters on the feet of the teachers unfortunate enough to be in the front row.

There is complete and utter silence for a few seconds before it becomes complete and utter chaos. Students are laughing so hard, they are wheezing. There is outraged shrieking from Lady Fabulous over on stage (well, at least she thinks it was the gay kid; with the amount of slushie she used, they all looked like blue blobs from afar), as he and the rest of the club are now slipping and sliding in flavored ice. Ms. Pillsbury is hyperventilating because of the slushie that got on her sweater. Figgins and Schuester are shouting and trying to keep order. The popular kids are keeping up the taunts and the jeers amidst their laughter. But in the midst of the mayhem, Puckerman is standing shock-still, his angry eyes staring directly at her.

Well, she can't disappoint the boy. While Quinn is giggling beside her and her friends are giving her well-deserved pats on the back, Rachel looks right back at him and blows him a kiss. Take that, freak.

"That's her!" she hears someone shout over the pandemonium. Whirling around, she catches sight of that fat chick from her AP Calculus class with one hand holding on to the collar of a squirming Jewfro and the other hand pointing straight at her. And worst of all, she had Coach Beiste right behind her.

Well, shit.

* * *

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	2. Chapter 2

**Oh my god, you guys! Every single one of your reviews put a smile on our faces. We're so happy by the amazing response to our story, we just wanted to update every day. Seriously you guys, thank you. It means a lot to us that you gave our baby a chance and want more of it. **

**Unfortunately, it isn't all sunshine and rainbows. It has come to our attention that a story with the same premise as this (role reversal -Rachel Cheerio, Puck loser) was posted here at . Now, this wouldn't normally be a problem, given that we are aware of the existence of _at least_ two more similar fics prior to ours and that the original inspiration for The Planets came from a prompt. The problem lies in the fact that the author of this story (who shall not be named because we're not interested in pointing fingers) posted it on the same day a review was left here in our fic under their username. We realize imitation is the sincerest form of flattery but we would appreciate if some people wouldn't go out of their way to intentionally copy ideas we've worked hard to come up with. That is all we ask.**

**Disclaimer: As far as we know, we don't own Glee. If we did, the focal point of the show would be Puck's guns ;)**

**We hope you like this chapter and please leave a review! We love to hear from you!**

OOO

Noah Puckerman is sitting in Principal Figgins' office and he is blue.

No, like literally _blue_.

Blue slush covers him from the tips of his short cropped hair to his Converse high-tops. It's down his shirt, in his underwear and smearing his glasses. He takes them off for a second to try and wipe off the chunks of blueberry-flavored ice with his shirt but it's a futile endeavor. He stops when he hears the absolutely infuriating giggle from the person seated right next to him.

"I'm digging the Smurf look on you, _Puke-rman_."

He bites his tongue, because as much as he'd love to tell her _exactly_ what he thinks of her, she's Rachel Berry and as far as he's concerned, she's still a girl and he was raised to respect girls. No matter how unreasonably mean and generally evil they are. He takes a deep calming breath, unhinges his tense jaw and looks straight ahead, effectively ignoring her existence.

What he can't ignore, however, is Principal Figgins and his mother arguing on the other side of the glass partition to the principal's office.

"This situation has reached a point of no return, Figgins. I want to know what's being done to stop this. There has to be a limit. If my own son can't even walk the halls without fear of being bullied…"

"I agree with your sentiments, Coach Beiste."

"Good. Then I recommend you kick that little she-devil out on her ass."

There is a gasp from the girl next to him and he turns to look at her. All color has drained away from her face and she looks about 5 seconds away from puking. The fear in her eyes makes her look almost human. He is so intent on his inspection that he misses when Principal Figgins enters the office again.

Rachel immediately goes on the defensive. "Look, you can't prove anything. I wasn't even near the stage when all of that shit happened. Have you people ever even heard of 'innocent until proven guilty'?"

Noah surprises himself when he speaks up. "Please, if she's innocent, I'm the Queen of England."

"Well, you always were a queen…"

"HEY!" he shouts, as if he hasn't heard worst insults to come out of this girl's mouth. "I think that if you brought the said buckets to the proper authorities, her fingerprints would be easily procured, identified and matched with her records, which I'm sure are long and extensive."

"Will you shut up already? You _never_ shut up! This is all your fault anyway."

"My fault? You dumped gallons of blueberry slushie on me and my teammates in front of the entire school!"

She levels him with an infuriatingly calm look. "I didn't do it." Then turns back to Figgins, "You have no proof."

Noah can _feel_ her fighting back a smug smirk under her cool and collected façade. He has a special Zen place inside him he goes to whenever that smirk appears and helps him with controlling his anger so he doesn't go crazy every time she gets the last word in or insults him or _dumps bucketloads of blueberry slushie on him_.

He still can't believe she did that. Not the cold beverage dousing – he's used to that – but the sheer scale of the entire prank. The logistics were quite impressive. She somehow managed to climb up the rafters and engineer a sophisticated slushie delivery system with wires and pulleys effective enough to be on target. The whole thing reminded him of that creepy 70's movie his friend Artie made him watch last Halloween. He doesn't like to compare himself to psychopaths, but he'd be lying if he said he wasn't the least bit inclined to tear her limb from limb (at least metaphorically) once the initial cold shock of the slushie shower wore off.

Figgins decides that was the perfect time to talk. "There is no need for the police to be involved in this." At Rachel's sigh of relief, Figgins fixes her with a piercing glare. "However, we do have video evidence of you installing the bucket system this weekend, which, by the way, constitutes as breaking and entering, as well as your conversation with Mr. ben-Israel regarding your plans for the assembly."

"How is that even possible?" she asks, dropping all pretense of innocence.

"It appears Lauren Zizes of the AV club took it upon herself to outfit the entire backstage, including the dressing rooms, with security cameras. "

"Ohmigod, stalker much?" Rachel snorts. Noah blushes. Lauren's little crush on him wasn't exactly a state secret but knowing that even Rachel Berry up on her glittering throne of popularity knew about it was embarrassing.

Ignoring her jibe, Figgins continues the story. "She was the one who brought the video to Coach Beiste and she was also the one to get a confession from Jacob." Eyeing the entirely unrepentant chit in the cheerleading uniform, he can't help the warning that creeps into his tone. "Apparently, all the practice on the wrestling team was enough for her to squeeze the information out of him."

Realizing she can get positively no help from that, Rachel switches tactics and turns her big brown eyes to the principal. "Can't you just give me detention?" she asks, batting her lashes, fixing an entirely fake innocent expression on her pretty face. "I'm really sorry, Principal Figgins. I promise I learned my lesson. It won't happen again."

Noah gapes, eyes darting to the principal. "You're not going to believe that are you? She's not sorry. She never is. Chances are she has one of her minions waiting for me outside with a Big Gulp in his hand at the ready to give me _another_ slushie facial. She'll never stop until you step up and do something about it!" He finishes his speech by slapping the desk (knocking a penholder and a framed picture in the process), the incredulous gaping expression of the principal and the soft snickering from Rachel reminding him just where he is and who he's talking to. "…sir," he mumbles pathetically, sinking back in his chair as a blush colors his blue-stained cheeks.

"Shit, Puckerman. I almost thought you had some balls there," Rachel acknowledges with a sneer. "Guess I was wrong."

"Enough, children," Figgins sighs, giving them a long suffering look. "Miss Berry, your behavior today was simply atrocious. I cannot let you walk out of this office without proper punishment. The school board does not look kindly on this sort of matters and unless you change, I will be inclined to agree with Coach Beiste regarding expulsion!" he says fiercely.

She pales once again, her features going blank.

"So I hereby sentence you to actively participate on the glee club until the end of the school year," he states determinedly, ignoring the teens' outraged gasps, both born in equal parts incredulity and fury. "You will sing and dance and do whatever Mr. Schuester tells you to. You will abstain from any and all acts of delinquency, directed to your new teammates and otherwise. Hopefully by the time June arrives you will be able to recognize your past mistakes and be a nicer person to your peers."

"Fuck no."

"Miss Berry! Language please!"

"Whatever. I'm not doing this shit," she declares furiously, shaking her head.

"You have to unless you want the school board notified. Furthermore, you will serve one month's detention with Coach Beiste doing whatever she considers fit for your punishment." At this, Rachel pales even further, if it were possible, sheer horror striking her features.

"If I may sir," Noah interrupts, raising his hand like a proper student. "I'd like to point out the various ways this could go wrong. This is a _very_ bad idea."

"My word is final," Figgins practically shouts. He stands up, spares one hard glance for each of his students, slaps the desk with considerably less vigor Noah had mere minutes ago and nods. "Both of you are dismissed."

Rachel stalks out of the office in a flurry of anger and Noah is all set to join her when his mother's hand on his wet shoulder stops him. He had forgotten that she was still there in the waiting area.

"You okay there, champ?" Shannon Beiste asks softly. Given the way she looked, one would think that his mother was a fierce, frightening ball buster who took no prisoners and in that, they were right. But they would be wrong in thinking that that was all she was. Shannon was all hard and tough on the outside but a complete softie on the inside, and in the middle of that nougatty center was a lot of love for her only child.

"I'm fine, Ma. I just need to clean up," he assures her. She smiles waveringly and waves him off, taking the time to enter the office herself and have a few more words with Principal Figgins.

Silently, he leaves the office and once in the hallway, turns to his left and walks off in the direction of the locker rooms. Well, at least he tries. Because apparently waiting on him, draped casually against one of the lockers, is the bane of his existence.

"Where do you think you're going?" Rachel says in her scary sweet voice, the one that generally anticipates excruciating pain and misery for the lower classes of McKinley. For a girl as petite as she is, she's surprisingly strong and manages to block his way with just a hand on his arm. He glances down at her hand and idly observes that she actually has very small hands. Seriously, if he wasn't so terrified of her, he'd probably be able to fit her in his pocket. Or, you know, walk away from her when she looks like she wants to hurt him.

"I need to clean off all this gunk," he grits out. He feels sticky everywhere, the slushie having seeped through his clothes and hair making one big mess of him. He's just glad that school is practically over because it's going to take a whole period just to wash up.

She rolls her eyes, uninterested. He's pretty sure she wouldn't be so flippant about it if she knew just how disgusting having corn syrup in your underwear really was. "So how do we do this? Do I just show up there and become pathetic?"

He narrows his eyes and the temper he so tries to hold back everyday is dangerously close to kicking in. "Listen," he growls. "I know you think glee club is lame and stupid and you hate me and everything but glee is very important to me. It's the only silver lining I have in this school, the only thing I look forward to between the slushies, the insults and the Neanderthals, and I'm not going to let you come and destroy it."

"Whatever, _Puke-rman_. Like I give a shit about your fucking feelings or glee club-"

"Exactly! You don't care. But _I_ do. I'm not gonna let glee join the long list of things I no longer enjoy because of you."

She purses her lips and looks away and if he weren't so against the idea of Rachel Berry having actual feelings, he might've seen the embarrassment flash through her face before she covered it up.

"I don't want to be expelled," she finally says, her gaze fixed at the end of the hall, her arms crossed defensively. "So whatever. I'm not gonna ruin your perfectly suck-ass club."

"Thank you. Hey, you might actually end up liking it." He half-smiles, mostly at the way she scrunches up her nose at the possibility of liking something as lame as show choir. "Can you sing?" he asks after a moment of silence.

She raises one perfectly shaped brow as she glares at him. "Does it matter?"

"Of course it matters," Noah says vehemently. He is quick to assure her, though, "Don't worry; you don't have to be great, just passable," oblivious to Rachel's narrowing eyes indicating her growing anger. "You'll just have to sway in the back and harmonize with the others while I take center stage, so it's no big deal. Just maybe prepare a song for today? It doesn't have to be fancy or anything. I recommend a simple, easy piece, nothing with high notes or too complicated vocals that are quite possibly out of your reach and that will only frustrate you when you fail—"

"_B!"_

His head snaps to the sound of _her_ voice, his heart beating erratically as the loveliest creature in the universe makes a beeline to where he and Rachel are standing. _Quinn Fabray_.

"Are you okay?" she says, her arms wrapping around Rachel's shoulders. How a girl as nice and beautiful and perfect as Quinn can be friends with the likes of Rachel Berry is beyond him. "Did you get in trouble?"

"Hi," he manages to breathe out, keeping his fingers crossed that she might acknowledge him.

"Hey," she glances in his general direction, frowns and looks highly repulsed when she sees he's covered in blue goo, and then turns back to her friend. "Did they suspend you?"

"No, I—Do you mind?" she snaps at Noah, who just stands there, gaping slightly, staring at Quinn like she's the most fascinating thing he's ever seen. "Shit, Puckerman, we're trying to have a conversation here. Leave. _Now_."

"Yes. Right." He shifts awkwardly, digs his hands in the pockets of his jeans and turns to face Rachel's annoyed expression. "Be at the choir room at three sharp please. And don't forget your song."

"Whatever," she rolls her eyes. "Go away, loser."

He ignores the insult (it was kind of a tame one anyway) and looks at Quinn one last time. She's texting, the artificial light of the hallway falling gracefully on her features giving her angelic beauty an even more ethereal glow. "Goodbye, Quinn."

"Bye," she says absently, never lifting her eyes from her phone. "So what's the verdict?" she asks Rachel once she sends her text.

"I have to join the glee club," he hears Rachel whine.


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: First off, thanks for all the wonderful reviews/alerts/favorites. For all the others who've read and enjoyed, we hope to hear from you. Your reviews make our day and it helps keep us inspired through RL troubles and missing muses. So please, click the nice little button at the bottom of the page and let us know what you think. We really appreciate it.**

**OOOOO**

"Rachel?"

The soft tones of Will Schuester suddenly materializing behind her is enough to make her jump where she stands. She has been staring at the choir room door(aka the backdoor entry to Hell) like a pussy for the last two minutes, alternately wishing that the damned thing would spontaneously explode and hoping that this was all just some horrible, horrible dream.

She's not scared, okay? _She's not. _She's badass number wha and if anyone else said different, she knew just where to make it hurt. It's just…lame as it was, this was their turf. Their Fortress of Craptacular Suckitude. She is wandering by herself into enemy territory and fuck it all if she wasn't a teeny, tiny bit uncomfortable with that idea.

"Mr. Schuester!" she squeaks. "Don't mind me, I'm just passing through." Holy fuck, was lameness actually contagious?

Schue just looks at her with his arms across his chest (say what you want about his addiction to sweater vests but dude had some pretty nice arms) and this all-too amused smile on his face. She gives up. "Oh, fuck it. I'm the one who slushied your stupid club so Figgins has this fucking crazy idea that if—"

Raising his hand to stop her from dropping any more f-bombs and continuing to disparage his club, he grimaces slightly. "I know. He told me all about it."

"Oh." She deflates a little at this. That meant it was actually official and shit. She's been clinging to the possibility that maybe Figgins would just forget about it and she'd get off scot-free, but no such luck.

"Nervous?" he teases her, looking at her slightly green expression. "I never thought I'd see the day." Rachel narrows her eyes, regarding the teacher closely. He sounds far too amused by the situation. "Well, come on, I'm sure your new teammates would be happy to see you."

"Yeah, happy to see me hang," she mutters behind his back. You gotta hand it to the guy; it takes someone with serious balls (and absolutely no clue) to think that they would all just fall in hand in hand and start singing some Kumbaya.

She doesn't realize that Schue has opened the door until the music abruptly stops. Everyone (literally _everyone _– even the piano guy she calls 'Tinkles' in her head) is looking at her goggle-eyed. At least they were blueberry ice-free; shit would've been even more awkward if she had walked into what looked like an audition for the Blue Man Group. Lady Fabulous speaks for all of them when he sneers, "What is _she_ doing here?"

All eyes turn to Schuester as he stands in front of the class. "Guys, I'd like to introduce you to our newest member," he gulps before continuing on cavalierly. "Give a warm glee club welcome to Rachel Berry."

Like a well-choreographed scene, there is a beat of silent disbelief before all hell breaks loose.

"Oh heeeell to the no!"

"Mr. Schue, has all that hairspray finally seeped into your brain? Is this some sort of joke?"

"This be some freaky shit, yo."

The sound of the door opening interrupts all the high-pitched whining and complaining and convoluted sentences and honestly, she's already getting a headache and no one's even sung anything yet. She welcomes the temporary silence until she realizes just who has walked through the door. Her stomach doubles over, his mere presence making her want to barf.

"Hi everyone. Sorry I'm late," Puckerman apologizes as he slips into the room.

"Noah! Do you know about this?" Goth Chick asks.

He looks at her then at Rachel for a moment. "Yes, I do."

"And?"

He sighs. "Look, it's not like we have a choice, okay? It's compulsory; Figgins made sure of it. Besides, we still lack the required number of members to qualify for competition so we can't really afford to be picky," he explains diplomatically.

"Give her a chance, guys," Mr. Schuester chimes in, reassuringly putting a steadying hand on her shoulder. Rachel swiftly snaps her head to the side and gives him a pointed look, briefly glancing at the hand still making contact with her person. With a visible gulp, he promptly releases her and takes two steps away. Hell yeah, you better be afraid, Schue.

Puckerman sees the entire exchange and looks at her with an inscrutable (fuck yeah she knows words) expression on his face. "Beggars can't be choosers."

Oh, this is going to be a _fun_ year.

"Well, I have to admit, it'll be fun to dress Her Royal Evilness in our ensembles," the gay kid concedes. He sniffs, adjusting his (frankly amazing) Burberry ensemble. "What are you, a size 0? 2?"

"2," she sneers. "And shit, you have costumes?"

"Mmhmm and girl, we're gonna have some fun with you…"

A vision of herself wearing miles of layered polka-dotted tulle and those stupid Converse sneakers that seemed to be fucking mandatory, standing in the middle of a stage singing and dancing to an '80s power ballad while rocking some serious jazz hands as everybody laughs in slow motion is enough to make her shudder. Fuck.

"Anyone else has anything to say?" Schuester interrupts. Looking at the finally calm contingent, he claps his hands once. "Okay then! Rachel, I know you being in the club is kind of a given but I'm hoping you have a song prepared. After all, we need to have some idea of what we're working with here, right?"

"Riiiight," she drawls. Literally, like, minutes ago, she had prepared a half-assed version of Katy Perry circa 'I Kissed a Girl'. Maybe if Puckerman heard her dedicate 'Ur So Gay' to him, he'd change his tune about having her in the club and she'd be free. A girl could only wish.

Her scheming thoughts are interrupted by Cadillac (Mercedes or Chrysler or whatever the hell her name was). "Look, why don't you just croak your way through some Ke$ha, or whatever it is you white girls sing, so we can get on with practice," the girl snarks, earning a high five from Lima's answer to Lance Bass sitting right beside her. "_Some _people have better things to do with their time."

Rachel narrows her eyes at the two. Oh, someone was going to get their weave ripped out before this period was through. Still, she goes to the middle of the floor, in front of the risers, and takes stock of her audience such as it was.

Cadillac and Hotpants are in the corner, whispering and snickering to each other. Wheels and Goth Asian Chick are on either side of Mr. Schue, looking at her with a combination of mild interest and apprehension. At least those threelook somewhat welcoming (and she's being wildly generous in her assessment here). She saves Puckerman for last. He is sitting near the band, his arms folded across his chest, regarding her with that infuriatingly superior, knowing gaze. Suddenly, she remembers what he said to her (_You just have to be passable_) and she gets it.

They're all just waiting for her to mess up.

_They expect her to mess up. _

_They _want_ her to mess up._

Her jaw tenses before she knows it. Rachel Berry has never backed down from a challenge. Ever. Some varsity cheerleading coach tells her she isn't experienced enough for a suicide drop? Make that an arabesque - heel stretch - suicide drop - full up - scorpion with a double down and 5 twists just for good measure, mofos. She didn't back down then and she sure as fuck isn't gonna back down now, especially not in front of these losers. She makes a split-second decision and leans over to whisper in the guitarist's ear. The boy with the long hair looks at her in surprise before shrugging and waiting for his cue.

"Any minute now, Rachel," Mr. Schue calls out helpfully.

Rolling her eyes discreetly, she gives Guitar Dude a nod. He starts on a simple chord progression and she tells herself to forget about the other people in the room; it's just her and the guitar. With that, she closes her eyes and lets go completely.

_Oh! Darling, please believe me  
I'll never do you no harm  
Believe me when I tell you  
I'll never do you no harm_

_Oh! Darling, if you leave me  
I'll never make it alone  
Believe me when I beg you  
Don't ever leave me alone  
_

If she had taken the time to open her eyes while she was singing, she would have witnessed a WMHS miracle. All 5 gleeks, their director, the remaining band members and Tinkles – all completely speechless and all with one thought in their head: "Where the hell did that voice come from?"

At that point, Rachel wasn't even thinking about anything (certainly not about voice lessons and music lessons; hell if she hadn't blocked that shit from her memory a long time ago) except the song. The soul of it, the feeling in every note…she just put it all out there.

_When you told me you didn't need me anymore  
Well you know I nearly broke down and cried  
When you told me you didn't need me anymore  
Well you know I nearly fell down and died_

_Oh! Darling, if you leave me  
I'll never make it alone  
Believe me when I tell you  
I'll never do you no harm_

Rachel finally opens her eyes , oddly exhausted, to meet the slack-jawed expressions of the other people in the room. As much as she let go and sang for herself just then, for the sheer enjoyment of singing a song she loved, nothing gave her more satisfaction than seeing _his _stupid eyes widen behind his stupid Buddy Holly glasses.

"And that's how it's done, bitches," she smirks, looking at her audience but addressing one person in particular. However, her pleasure at proving her awesomeness (again) is interrupted by the suspicious glint in Schue's eyes. Crap. She's not entirely sure she likes that glint.

"Well," he starts slowly. "It looks like we've found our female lead."

She gapes at the teacher while with a muttered curse, Puckerman stands up so quickly, his chair falls over with a clang.

"Are you insane? I'm not singing with _**her/him!**_" they exclaim in perfect unison. Realizing they're just proving his point, they scowl at each other before turning furious gazes back at the glee director.

"See? Even your shouting blends well," Schuester grins, to the amusement of the rest of the club. Someone has the horrible timing to snicker right at that moment and she whirls around to put the fear of Berry in them.

Meanwhile, Puckerman is trying to talk some sense into the man hell-bent on destroying her life. "Mr. Schuester, while I appreciate your efforts to 'shake up' the club, I have to protest. Even if technically our voices would sound well together in theory, we need have more than just decent harmony. We need musical compatibility, we need power, we need passion, we need…_chemistry. _And, no offense, I don't think she has it."

Rachel is suddenly and profoundly insulted and she doesn't know why. "_She _is still here. Are you saying I can't do it? Hey, I'll have you know, I can be all up in your chemistry if I wanted to!"

"What does that even mean?" he bites back.

"I'll tell you, you fu—"

"That's enough." The sudden appearance of stern!Schue makes them both shut up, although they're still glaring at each other. "Look, Noah, you have to trust me here. I know a good thing when I see it," he says, clapping a hand on his male lead's shoulder.

"Fine," he grumbles. "But I reserved the right to try out any possible contenders for the position when I joined Glee and that includes her. After all, I can't just sing with anyone."

"Fine," Rachel grits out.

"Fine!" he retorts.

"Fine," Schue wearily says. "How about we do it right now?" Seeing Noah about to respond, he stops him. "Please don't say 'fine'."

He just nods in response before fishing some sheet music out of his backpack and distributing it among the band. Grabbing hold of the last copy, he practically throws it at Rachel and regards her with a hard stare. "Try and keep up," he says, arching an eyebrow at her.

Managing to bite back the smartass response on the tip of her tongue, she takes her place beside the piano. If they do end up being the leads, it would be a fucking miracle if they didn't end up killing each other by the first week. The boy just made her want to set herself on fire. Or him. Preferably him. She's too pretty to go up in flames. To her ever-loving surprise, it is Puckerman, and not Tinkles, that positions himself behind the piano. He kicks away the bench and poises his fingers on the keys.

"Are you ready?"

She meets his eyes without flinching. "Bring it."

The drummer starts them off with a nice beat and she finds herself watching Puckerman. He is nodding his head along to the beat and staring at the band, who seem to be anticipating his signal. Suddenly, he starts his (surprisingly skillful) banging on the piano and soon, the guitar and the keyboards kick in and she finds herself bopping along to the catchy, upbeat melody. At his look, she begins the song.

_(__**Ahhh ah**_

_**Ahhh ah ah**__)_

_I wanna ask you -_

_Do you ever sit and wonder,_

_It's so strange_

_That we could be together for_

_So long, and never know, never care_

_What goes on in the other one's __**head**__?_

_Things I've felt but I've never __**said**_

_You said things that I never said_

_So I'll say something that I should have said long ago:_

_(__**You don't know me**__)_

_You don't know me at all_

_(__**You don't know me**__)_

_You don't know me __**at all**_

It was a strange experience to be singing this with Noah Puckerman of all people (and yes, she can admit it to herself when she's the one actually performing with him – the boy's definitely got a set of pipes on him). She watches him and it's like his whole body is involved in the song. As much as she wants to point and laugh and call him spastic, it's really not. He's just moving to the rhythm, banging his head, practically stomping on the damper…and she finds herself moving in counterpoint to him.

_You could have just __**propped me up**__ on the table like a mannequin_

_**Or a**__ cardboard stand-up and paint me (__**paint me any face**__)_

_Any face that you wanted me_

_To be __**seen**_

_**We're**_

_**Damned**__ by the existential moment where_

_We saw the couple in the coma and_

_It was we were the cliché,_

_But we carried on anyway._

_**So sure**__,__ I could just close my eyes._

_**Yeah, sure**__,__ trace and memorize,_

_But can you go back once you know_

His face was still all serious but at least he had lost the look he had on his face before they started the song, like he smelled a fart or something. He glances up at her while he sings and for a weird reason known only to losers, he smiles at her.

At some point, she finds herself (reluctantly) smiling back.

_(__**You don't know me**__)_

_You don't know me at all_

_(__**You don't know me**__)_

_You don't know me __**at all**_

_(__**You don't know me**__)_

_You don't know me at all_

_(__**You don't know me**__)_

_You don't know me_

_If I'm the person that you think I am (__**Ah ah ahh**__)_

_Clueless chump you seem to think I am (__**Ah ah ahhh**__)_

_So easily led astray,_

_An errant dog who occasionally escapes and needs a shorter leash, then_

_**Why the fuck would you want me back?**_

His eyes widen when she improvises and sings along with him to the last line. She smirks at him and just continues dancing around the piano. Fuck, is she actually enjoying this? Damn you, Puckerman.

_Maybe it's because_

_(__**You don't know me at all**__)_

_Ahhh ah_

_Ahhh ah_

_(__**You don't know me,**_

_**you don't know me**__)_

_Ahhh ah_

_Ahhh ah_

_So, what I'm trying to say is_

_What (__**What?**__)_

_I'm trying to tell you_

_It's not gonna come out like I wanna say it 'cause I know you'll only change it._

_(__**Say it!**__)_

_(__**You don't know me**__)_

_You don't know me at all_

_(__**You don't know me**__)_

_You don't know me __**at all**_

_(__**You don't know me**__)_

_You don't know me at all_

_(__**You don't know me**__)_

_You don't know me __**at all!**_

_What?_

_(__**Mmmm, ohh oh**_

_**Ah ah ah ah ah**_

_**Aha ah ah ah**_

_**Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah**_

_**Oh-oh-oh-oh-oh**_

_**Aha ah**_

_**Ah ah**_

_**Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah**_

_**Oh-oh-oh-oh oh ohh**__)_

When the last note fades away, it's like everyone just forgot how to talk. Shit, silence is never good. It's not like she was waiting for a standing ovation or anything (she's not!); it's just impolite, okay? She was about to go all Berry on their asses if they didn't start making some noise when, slowly but surely, the clapping starts and keeps on getting louder and louder. Porcelain and his fag hag seem to be clapping more out of duty than anything else, with matching scowls (and in Porcelain's case, nose up in the air), but everyone else makes up for it. There's even a whoop coming from Wheels. Mr. Schuester's smile is wide enough to be creepy if she wasn't smiling just as big. Stupid involuntary muscle actions.

She spares a glance at Puckerman still sitting by the piano. He's smiling too, not nearly as big as Schuester but there's no denying the joy and satisfaction lighting up his features. Their eyes meet for a nanosecond and the corners of his lips tug up a little higher. She looks away.

"Satisfied?" At their mute nods, Schue laughs. "Good, now let's take it from the top."

Rachel looks around her, then stares longingly at the choir room door and sighs. Well, if it wasn't obvious then, it was crystal clear now. Ladies and gents, Rachel Berry is now a part of glee club.

Heaven help them all.

**OOOOO**

Rachel's audition – Oh! Darling by the Beatles

Rachel and Noah's duet – You Don't Know Me by Ben Folds and Regina Spektor

Legend for the duet:

Noah – _italics_

Rachel – **(Bold in parenthesis)**

Both – **Bold and underlined**


	4. Chapter 4

**Thank you so much for your kind words, your reviews are AMAZING. And we'd also like to thank all the people who are reading this, it means so much to us that you're enjoying our little fic and we'd love to hear from you. **

* * *

"It's so lame, Q. So fucking lame I wanted to stab myself in the eye with a pencil."

"Don't cuss in front of the baby Jesus," Quinn hisses, standing from her spot on the bed where she'd been perusing the latest issue of Seventeen. She crosses the room in long strides and comes to stand between Rachel and the dresser where a porcelain life-sized figurine of a chubby baby rests surrounded by candles.

Rachel rolls her eyes. Above Quinn's bed, the picture of the Virgin Mary looks down on her disapprovingly.

She hates Quinn's room. It's so pink and girly and just freaky with all the crosses and Jesus staring at her from everywhere. She avoids coming here as much as possible but her house is on her way home from school and she figured what the hell? She's in the mood to bitch and moan so she might as well do it in person.

"Can't you get out of it? Tell them your religion doesn't allow you to be in show choir. That's what I do to get out of Sex Ed."

"I don't think I can get away with it." Rachel frowns. "After all, Puckerman is Jewish too."

"Who?" Q lolls her head to the side, oblivious.

Rachel rolls her eyes. "Never mind." Noah Puckerman is so far below Quinn's league, she doesn't even register his existence.

With Quinn, it's fairly simple: if you're popular, you exist; if you're not, then you _don't_. She doesn't register losers the way Rachel or the other popular kids at school do. Meaning she doesn't pick on anyone, she doesn't call them names and she doesn't make it a habit of torturing the lesser people of McKinley. Odd, yes, especially considering she's at the top of the pyramid, but particularly clever of her. There's a reason everybody, even the lowest cockroach on the food chain, thinks she's the perfect angelic golden girl. All that plays in her favor when it's time to vote for Homecoming queen. That, Rachel knows, is what Quinn really cares about. Popularity is her crack and she'd do anything to remain in her place as Queen Bee. And as every good queen knows, she needs good press and a steady stream of loyal worshipers at her feet to stay on top. Otherwise, she'd be overthrown in the blink of an eye and her dreams of being elected Prom Queen and be forever immortalized in the Thunderclap for her grandkids would be pretty much destroyed. She can't really pull it off if she's a bitch to everybody and even if she tried? Rachel wouldn't allow it.

Look, it's not like she hates Quinn, they're best friends okay? But Q's got her own thing going and if she chooses to play nice without actually _being_ nice to losers so said losers would love and worship her… well then, that's her game plan. Rachel? She doesn't give a fuck what everyone else thinks of her. She's the one who really_ owns _the school and even Quinn knows best to mess with that. Nothing happens without her okay. That means no parties, no pranks, no romantic relationships or alliances of any kind. She has a lot of weapons and minions at her disposal and she's not afraid to use them.

Case in point: one Tamara 'Call Me Tammy' Summers. Last year, she was a transferee from Alabama with a nice record as a cheerleader and It Girl at her old school. She was a flyer, same as Rachel, and a pretty good one too, so Sylvester put her at the top of the pyramid. Well, not _the _top since that's Rachel's place but being one row down from the captain in her rookie year certainly got to her head. Had Tammy used her tiny little brain right, she would've been welcomed to their clique and been part of Rachel and Quinn's inner circle. 'Course, girl ended up being as dumb as an Alabama post.

Because why else would the skanky ho believe that she could get Rachel out of the picture so she could take her place as resident badass queen of WMHS? Bitch even had the gall to stage an 'accident' on the night of the championship football game halftime show. Rachel goes up into an arabesque…then lands hard on the ground when her base botches the catch and she ends up breaking her wrist. It didn't take a rocket scientist to guess how that happened. Her base (Ron Jacobs) was a sucker for pussy and Tamara was offering free passes to anyone who wanted it. Guess she thought with Rachel benched, her road to the top was going to be all unicorns and candy fluff.

Or so she thought.

Rachel prefers not to get into details (a girl's gotta keep her mystery) but in the span of a week Tamara was kicked out for 'the commission of obscene acts' (she really should've kept quiet about the little business she conducted as a 'masseuse' for the hockey team) and her father was charged with furnishing alcohol to minors (Mr. Summers shouldn't have bought his daughter a keg every time she caught him having sex with a hooker) and solicitation, obvs. Now Tamara lives in Missouri with her gun-toting, Bible-quoting grandmother while her daddy does time in the state pen. And Ron was kicked off the Cheerios; last she knew he was hanging with the stoners by the quad.

That's just one of the many examples of how Rachel rules the school. Staying on her good side is vital if you have any hope to be anybody at McKinley. Who knows just what may happen to you if you mess with her. Being forced to join the glee club certainly qualifies as messing with her and she'll be damned if she's just gonna sit back and take it while those losers bring down her rep. She has a plan.

"So." Rachel bites her lower lip, silently sizing up her friend, figuring out the best plan of attack. She needs to approach it carefully if she wants Quinn to do exactly what she wants, after all her best friend's not stupid. Easily influenced, yes, and extremely peer-pressureable, but definitely not stupid. "It's kinda lonely there, you know."

"Where? Glee club?" Quinn glances up from the dresser, her hand resting affectionately on baby Jesus's chubby cheek.

(That's just creepy.)

"Yeah," she sighs, ducks her head and fidgets with the hem of her skirt. She takes a certain pleasure in making her voice as small and vulnerable as possible. "It just…it reminds me of my mom. It's hard not to think about her when I'm there. She's gone and she still manages to make my life miserable. The last thing I need is those gleeks knowing how vulnerable I am when I go inside that room." Rachel ventures a calculated glance up at Quinn's eyes and sees the raw sympathy there. Bingo. She should really feel bad about milking the history that Quinn is very much aware of but screw that - she's got bigger fish to fry.

Rachel lets out another sigh, shakier this time (it's all about dejection) and turns her back to her friend, her own arms coming around her to fend off a very fake shiver. "And to make matters worse, they hate me. Which is fine, 'cause I hate them too, but they outnumber me, Q! You should've seen how they ganged up on me today. I'm in their turf and I just know they're gonna take advantage of that." She sits on the edge of the bed, her hands under her thighs as a pained expression strikes her features. "And I just have to sit there and take it, because they know I'll be expelled if I do anything in retaliation."

Quinn rushes to kneel beside her and wrap her in her arms. "Rach, I'm so sorry." She squeezes her harder. "I'm not gonna let them hurt you okay? You're Rachel Berry. You're top dog. We're gonna show them not to mess with you."

"But how, Q?" she practically wails with a healthy dose of desperation. "There's five of them and they all want to see Figgins kick me out on my ass."

"Don't cuss, and don't worry about it." With her patented Queen Bee smile on, she rises to her feet, hands placed firmly on her hips. "You say they outnumber you? Well, we can fix that. I'm joining Glee Club with you."

Rachel schools her features to hide her triumphant smirk. On the outside, she looks the part of an eternally grateful friend but on the inside she's practically dancing. She doesn't like lying to Quinn, especially doesn't like playing the Mom card on her when the pain her mother left her with is very real, but as the saying goes, desperate times call for desperate measures. Quinn would probably up and join Glee club if Rachel asked her but she's not going to because glee club is lame and the epicenter of loserdom. Besides, you just don't put your friends in a position to choose between two options, one option guaranteed to kill their rep and also be the option you're dying for them to choose in the first place. Rachel doesn't like asking for things. When you ask for something you really want, you risk rejection. Just _taking_ things, making situations work your way so you can get what you want, is much safer. Not to mention if things don't go as planned and everything goes to hell, no one knows anything about how much you really wanted it and you can suffer your pain in silence. Asking for anything just leaves you open to the screwed up whims of other people. It makes you weak.

So yeah, Quinn would be pissed if she knew Rachel is basically playing a Jedi mind trick on her, but Rachel would be hurt if she asked Quinn to help her and she said no. She'll take a pissed Quinn any day over her own hurt feelings. She has feelings too, you know? People tend forget, and she tries to pretend she doesn't care, but they're there alright. And they get hurt more often than not.

_Moving on._

Okay, so Rachel really needs some back up if she's going to survive an entire year with those gleeks. She'll be damned if she lets them get the better of her. The first step in her totally badass, foolproof plan to make the glee club, if not cool, at least _tolerable_, was making Q think it was really her plan to join and get others to follow her lead. If Quinn joins, it's guaranteed Sam Evans will too, and eventually, Finn Hudson, the darling idiot, who she can get to jump through loops if she wanted. With those three, Rachel has her support to 'recruit' more people. Next? Well, luckily, she has some very juicy evidence that her frenemy Santana would rather remain unknown. And let's not forget Mike Chang and Brittany Pierce. They'll be easy.

But more than upping the coolness factor, there is the very important fact that Rachel Berry is a winner. She has never and will never be part of a losing team. As Aretha would say – hell to the no. Schue could talk his unholy head of hair off all he wanted about team unity and doing it for the love of the music. Whoop-de-fucking-doo. She was in this stupid club whether she wanted to or not and she was going to make them win even if she had to pistol whip everyone else. The first step to that is to have enough members to actually be eligible to compete. And the fact that she's going to fill those spots in with her people is just good time management.

She suddenly can't wait till the next glee meeting. She's practically bouncing with anticipation. Puckerman's face when he sees his little club invaded is going to be the cherry on top of an awesome Berrylicious sundae.

(And if there's a teeny, tiny part of her that maybe, sorta feels bad about doing it...well, she's gotten pretty good at ignoring that.)

* * *

"I don't know why you even bother with this shit, B." Fresh out of the tanning booth, her naturally caramel skin glowing with a bronze sheen like she's just stepped off a Bahamas beach, Santana gracefully sits down next to Rachel, next in line to get her bikini wax. Honey-sweet smile in place she glances to Rachel's general genital area. "I mean it's not like you give it any use."

Unimpressed, Rachel deadpans "You're hilarious, Santana. I'm laughing it up here."

She rolls her eyes. "Bitch, you know you love me. Plus I'm right. When was the last time you got your muffin buttered?"

Before Rachel could answer, a pair of nail techs descend upon them. "Pedicure?" one of them asks.

"_Please._" Santana draws out obnoxiously with a sneer.

They settle on their little stools and the girls make quick work of choosing the style and color –Rachel goes for a simple French tips while Santana selects the brightest red polish to go with her Cheerio uniform. The nail techs work quietly, knowing all too well Ms. Sylvester's girls aren't keen on making small talk with the 'help'.

"You know, if dick really isn't your thing, Britts and I would love to help out." Santana offers nonchalantly.

Repressing a long-suffering sigh, Rachel asks, "Why the sudden interest in my lady business?"

"That rhymed." Brittany hops out of the private massage room and throws herself to the seat next to Santana. She waves to Rachel and says hi –they _just_ saw each other!- and smiles to the girl doing Santana. "I want blue glitter French tips with lots of fish on the big toes. And sprinkles!"

The nail tech waves to one of her coworkers to come and the request, hardly outrageous coming from Brittany, is immediately set in motion.

"Just curious." Santana shrugs, picking up their conversation like it wasn't interrupted. "I mean, I know even Quinn gets some and she was the president of the Celibacy Club," she scoffs.

Rachel can't help to wince a little bit. Quinn made them all join that sham of club, deaf to her friends' protest. It had been torture, sitting in that room to pray week after week and talking about suppressing and ignoring their bodies' natural urges, especially considering nearly all the members were sexually active. Q even made them wear purity rings. Thank God one of the girls got knocked up. Principal Figgins shut them down pretty damn quickly after that.

"Q said something about you dating her cousin Donnie."

"She's mental," Rachel grits out. "And so is he. Dude won't stop calling me and he's legit stalking me on Facebook. I was gonna let him down easy but if doesn't stop being such a pain in the ass…"

She lets the sentence die, her intentions clear. Santana grins mischievously. "Whatever it is you're gonna do to him, I'm in. What the fuck kind of name is Donnie anyway?"

Rachel grins and chuckles. In spite of her many faults (and there are a lot), Santana is actually kind of sweet sometimes.

"So what's new with you?" she asks with a calculating smile, blinking innocently at Rachel.

Aaaand the bitch is back. Rachel smiles back. She has no doubts Santana's heard about her punishment and she's sure she just wants to gloat about Rachel's misery because that's just the kind of friends they are. Frankly, Rachel would do the same if she were in San's place.

She shrugs. "Nothing much." Then with a conniving little smile, "I talked to my dad yesterday."

Total lie. Her dad is out of town working on a case and she has no idea when he's coming back. She last talked to him a week ago and she's not expecting another call before Sunday when her weekly update report is due. But Santana doesn't need to know that.

"Anything interesting?" San asks distracted.

"Actually, yeah." She bites her lip, waiting in silence as Santana looks up from the tech coating her nails in red. "We talked a bit and he asked about you."

Genuine surprise strikes Santana's face before she masks it with a sly waggling of eyebrows. "Really?"

"Yeah, he said your dad made a statement at the local PD because his prescription pads keep disappearing and someone's been taking the drug samples from his office," Rachel informed her with a pointed look.

Santana knows what she is trying to do. She is being fairly obvious and after all, Santana's mind works like Rachel's in so many ways. She'd probably still catch on even if Rachel was trying to hide her intentions to the best of her capacity. Santana knew her father hadn't made any statement; if he had noticed the drugs and prescriptions going missing, he would've mentioned something to his daughter. And she knew Rachel's dad wasn't in on it either, at least not yet. But running a small but thriving underground business keeping the population of McKinley high and medicated is not something to be taken lightly.

Rachel can tell when realization finally hits Santana because her fear-stricken face pales. "What do you want me to do?" she asks, her voice a choked whisper.

"Join glee club." Rachel stares at the utter disgust twisting Santana's face. She really can't blame her. "And talk Brittany into it, too. God knows that won't be hard."

Santana nods, somber, staring right ahead. Rachel stands up – her pedicure looks lovely, by the way – and slips inside the room to take her turn with Olga, the waxing specialist, an accomplished smile in her face.

* * *

She walks through the door of the choir room with far more enthusiasm than the last time. When shocked, reverential silence meets her, Rachel can't help but smile a little too smugly. She could get used to this kind of welcome.

She's the last to arrive. Mr. Schuester gives her a warm smile, a complete contrast to the assortment of scowls, unimpressed stares and vaguely hostile looks from the rest of the group. Puckerman is the only one who's not looking at her –he merely spared a glance her way when she opened the door and then promptly ignored her presence, focused on the sheet music in his hands.

She walks into the room, leaving the door wide open, and clears her throat to gather everyone's attention.

"I have an announcement to make," she starts. Satisfied everybody's attention is focused solely on her, she continues. "As the new female lead, I feel it is my responsibility to make sure you people don't suck. Now I'm no miracle worker and frankly, you _do_ suck," she flashes them a bright smile, "so I figured maybe by bringing in some _real_ talent we could, I dunno, shake things up?" She gives an obnoxious pop to the p, staring right at Puckerman.

Frightened looks flicker between the gleeks, with the exception of Puckerman who stares back at her, seething by the way she is questioning the group's, and indirectly his, talent. Rachel, on the other hand, can't stop smiling. They're pissed; she can practically feel their murderous vibes coming her way.

The girls' timing is impeccable. At that moment, they gracefully enter the room, chins up, ponytails bobbing, hands on their hips. They come to stand behind Rachel, identical smirks widening in the face of the group's visible hostility.

"My girlfriends would like to audition," Rachel says mildly. "Mr. Schue?"

He gapes, stunned. How charming.

Hotpants kicks his chair and the director snaps out of it, nodding and blinking like crazy. "Yes. Alright. Did you prepare a song?"

Rachel glides to the seat furthest away from the gleeks, conveniently surrounded by empty chairs soon to be occupied by her friends. Quinn, Santana and Brittany share quick glances and take their places in front of their audience, then look at Rachel, waiting for her nod. With her hands folded neatly over her lap and her smirk in place, she signals them to start.

They all snap their fingers to set the beat, opting to do the song a capella. Santana and Quinn sing in unison, with Brittany harmonizing in the background during the intro and then mashing her voice in with theirs.

_G-L-A-M-O-R-O-U-S_

_(Yeah )_

_G-L-A-M-O-R-O-U-S_

_We flyin' first class  
Up in the sky  
Poppin' champagne  
Livin' my life  
In the fast lane  
And I won't change  
By the Glamorous, oh the flossy flossy_

_The glamorous,  
The glamorous, glamorous  
By the Glamorous, oh the flossy flossy_

_The glamorous,  
The glamorous, glamorous  
By the Glamorous, oh the flossy flossy_

_Yeah…_

No sooner than they had closed their mouths, Rachel opens hers. "So? Like it, _Puke-rman_?" He glares at her, tight-lipped. The tension in the room could be cut with a butter knife. "Know what? I really don't care what you think." She turns her eyes to Schuester "Did they make it? I know you're still short on members to qualify…"

(Please…she knows they got in. She just knows it. Of course, their vocals weren't as awe-inspiring as hers – but really, who was? – but they were good. Quinn's voice was pretty, if a little nasal, Santana had surprisingly good vocal chops even if she had the tendency to go a bit sharp and Brittany could be the next Auto-Tuned pop princess if she wanted to be.)

Schue nods. "You girls were great," he shoots them a sincere, yet slightly tight smile. "Welcome to glee club."

* * *

Girls' audition: Glamorous by Fergie

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	5. Chapter 5

**AN: Hi all! Have we told you lately that we love you? Seriously, you guys make us so happy with the reviews and the alerts and the favorites. If you could see us whenever we read your kind and encouraging words or get an email alert from FF, it really would be very damaging to our badass reps ;)**

**So here's our latest chapter. We hope you enjoy it. Also a Happy Easter for those that celebrate it and a Happy Sunday for those who don't!**

* * *

Noah hates surprises. Ever since his 7th birthday when his parents decided to surprise him with a clown at his party (totally unaware that his annoying cousin Tyler tricked him into watching some scenes from _It_) and he ran screaming from a horrible monstrosity with white face paint, big red hair and a multi-colored bowtie, he has hated surprises. Give him a day planner, a calendar and a 25-point list detailing each and every possible scenario and its appropriate response any day. Insult him, call him obsessive-compulsive if you'd like, and let's see who will still be laughing when the apocalypse comes and you have no fully-equipped, zombie-protected bunker at the ready.

Yeah, he thinks about these things.

So, to recap: surprises and the general unknown = bad. He avoids them as much as possible. But that's the thing about surprises, they're supposed to sneak up on you when you least expect them and, you know,_ surprise_ you. Like right now.

"Welcome to glee club."

Over the shocked silence that immediately follows those four seemingly innocent little words, only the positively deafening sound of Rachel's smugness is heard. It could just be his imagination, or maybe the loud ringing in his ears is just a warning sign of a rapidly approaching stroke. That last scenario is the most likely to become reality (he sure feels like dying a quick death right about now) and no, he's not being dramatic.

The last few days have kind of been his worst nightmare. As if the unexpected shock of a mahoosive slushie shower in front of his (future) adoring public wasn't bad enough, the universe had to give him a metaphorical bitchslap in the form of Rachel Berry joining the glee club.

She was…ugh, he doesn't really know what else she was besides being a complete pain in his ass.

(There was a time when he _thought _he knew Rachel Berry but that was in an entirely different life altogether.)

(Besides, the person he knew is worlds away from this…brunette Barbie with the always artistically tousled hair, shiny lips and mean grin. He's accepted the fact that those two Rachels no longer existed in the same time-space continuum.)

Still, he went with it. Far be it for him to go against his esteemed principal. Noah didn't know what the hell to expect from the addition of that she-devil to his beloved circle of losers. He only prayed that she would just keep out of the way and let the rest of them do their jobs. Instead, he is delivered the third shocker of the day. Hearing _that_ voice coming out of the meanest girl he's ever known practically knocks him on his ass. It's a surprise, yes, albeit a weird and wonderful one. He is secure enough in his own gifts to acknowledge talent when he sees it, even if it is wrapped in the most infuriating package possible. By the end of the song, he's still stunned and he almost (_almost) _lets slide Mr. Schue's unexpected offer of the lead female spot to her.

But it's more than her voice, phenomenal as it was, that is the surprise. It is the thought that maybe, just maybe, there might be something more to Rachel Berry after all. Add to that the experience of singing with her (yeah, so maybe a little part of him wanted to trot out those vocal chops himself that led to the token protests he made) and he thinks he found it – that spark of something he thought the girl who ruled WMHS with an iron fist had lost long ago. If anything, he's willing to give this a shot.

But if Noah had thought that weathering the bombshell of Rachel Berry two days before was detrimental to his nervous system, it was nothing compared to the shock of seeing Quinn Fabray strolling into his choir room in all her Cheerio glory. He's almost willing to overlook Rachel's generally horrible and hostile attitude just because she made it possible for this goddess to share the same atmosphere as him.

He's been in love with Quinn Victoria Fabray since sophomore year when he was seated behind her in 4th period Chemistry. Her pen had run out of ink and when she proceeded to take his with an absently murmured 'thanks', he knew that they were meant to be together. The combination of his ambition and talent, complemented by her leading lady looks and perfect lady-like demeanor, would catapult them straight to the top. Hell, they'd be the Paul and Linda McCartney of their generation, only with less focus on vegetables.

Even now he watches her from across the room and he thinks she's perfect. There's a little accomplished smile curving her soft, full lips as she regally sits down directly next to Rachel, smoothing her Cheerio skirt over her thighs. She chuckles along with Santana at something Brittany says, turns around and her green eyes skim over her new teammates. Her eyes meet his for a fraction of a second before she turns back to Rachel and whispers something in her ear and in that moment, his breath catches in his throat and his heart skips a beat.

It proves to be detrimental to his health and vocal cords when the hitch in his breathing causes him to start coughing uncontrollably, moisture collecting in his eyes due to the momentary lack of oxygen and his cheeks flushing as he feels everyone's eyes on him.

"You okay there, Noah?" Mr. Schue asks, coming to stand beside him and gently patting his back.

"I'm good, thanks," he chokes out and visibly winces at the rough, strangled sound that came from him.

"Well, how about we get on with practice then?" Mr. Schue waves the stack of sheet music in his hands before them with a grin. "I found the perfect Journey song for you to sing. Noah, Rachel you're the leads. The rest of you guys know what to do and you girls," he nods to the three new members "I'm sure you'll pick it up right away. Let's get to work!"

* * *

For the first time since he argued that Figgins adding a possibly convicted felon of a cheerleader would signal the death knell for glee, he thinks that this might actually work. And he thinks maybe it's time to bury the hatchet. Truth be told, Rachel Berry is a soul-crushing, psyche-damaging, lip gloss-addicted product of Hell. But she can sing (boy, can she sing…) and she managed to convince Quinn and two more of her friends to join the club and for that Noah is thankful. Lord knows they need members and it's no secret their ineffective advertising methods border on begging and bribery.

After glee, all four Cheerios rush off to a late practice and he is left to deal with the reactions of his teammates. Tina, Mercedes and Kurt are reasonably concerned that with the new additions to glee club, the number of their allotted solos will decrease considerably. They promptly voice their worries and make it perfectly clear they are not in any way, shape or form, happy with the situation. Frankly, he knew this was going to happen the moment the three Cheerios started singing that silly song with an arrangement so obviously lifted from _Gossip Girl _(don't judge him if he wants to witness the sexual appeal of Leighton Meester firsthand).

As much as his fellow glee clubbers complain about the absolute lack of interest New Directions generates and the pitiful amount of students actually brave enough to even _think _of auditioning, they haven't exactly been open to welcoming anyone to their tightly-knit group. The five of them have been together since freshman year, back when Sandy Ryerson was in charge of the club. Some people have come and gone (most notably the unfortunate Hank Saunders) but only a grand total of two students have actually attempted to join the club. Of course, both of them were systematically scared away even before they could finish singing. Now, Noah tries to be the best team captain he can be but there wasn't really much he could've done when Mercedes went out of her way to intimidate the prospective club members, with Kurt in tow dishing out jibes directed at their lack of fashion sense and vocal inferiority. If he remembers correctly, one of them might have burst into tears and ran away. He thinks that kid ended up transferring or something. And Tina might look shy and gentle but take away one of her solos and she will bring on the Asian wrath. He knows this because he once tried to suggest that Mercedes take over all of the female parts on Don't Stop for the assembly. He still has the bruises on his shin where she kicked him with her steel-toed boot. Artie is the only one who's okay with the four Cheerios becoming permanent members of New Directions. Of course, Noah knows his friend and from his vantage point, Artie has a perfect view up the girls' skirts. There will definitely be no complaints coming from that quarter.

Somehow, he manages to make it out of the choir room alive by repeatedly making assurances that he would handle it and talk to Mr. Schue. Checking his watch, he postulates that he has enough time to have a short conversation with Rachel before he needs to go to his part-time job as a guitar instructor at the JCC. He ends up waiting patiently in a darkened corner outside the gym (he's trying to avoid running into a jock or any of that ilk, thank you very much) for Cheerio practice to let out. As he checks his watch again, he misses the blur of red and white as it catapults itself out of the gym…and right smack into him. Stunned, wind knocked completely out of him, Noah finds himself staring into Rachel's big brown eyes.

"Puckerman," she states plainly. She is caught so off guard by him that she actually calls him by name (instead of freak, loser or that wonderful Berry neologism – "Puke-rman").

That's when he realizes that he has both hands grasping her arms firmly holding her flush against him (boy, the force of that impact really made him do stupid things) and, like someone about to be stricken by a deadly Egyptian cobra, he pulls back quickly. He clears his throat. "Rachel, um look, I think we got off on the wrong foot. I realize that we have had our differences," – at this she ticks an eyebrow up – "but I think we can work through them in a civilized manner since we're now teammates and co-leads." The little smirk on her face should _not _be scaring him as much as it is. He clears his throat again. "Also, as captain, I wanted to welcome you officially to glee club. There's no denying your talent and the fact that we sound phenomenal together. We might even have a shot at Sectionals this year with you and your friends in the club. I realize we haven't done a proper group number yet but I'm confident that layering Tina's alto with Brittany and Quinn will produce lovely harmonies, and Santana's voice will balance Mercedes' perfectly. With a little work, they'll sound amazing and provide superb backing for the two of us."

Rachel has her arms crossed as she stares at him with a calculating look on her face. "Really?"

He nods fervently. "But like I said, it's in the best interest of the club that you and I form a strong united front that they can look to for guidance. We need to stand by one another against them when they inevitably turn against us in jealousy." Her eyebrow goes up a little higher if it were even possible and Noah shuffles uncomfortably on his feet. "You and I, we're gifted. They're above average at best. It's bound to happen. Which is why I feel we should forget our differences and establish a friendship, a sort of symbiotic arrangement if you will, based on mutual respect and tolerance."

She waits five whole seconds before she speaks, undoubtedly making sure he has nothing left to say before she starts. "Look, Puckerman, I wish I had the time to listen to you go on and on about your _feelings _but I have some place better to be. So how about we don't do this touchy-feely shit right now and just go on with our lives? Consider myself properly welcomed to Homo Explosion and while I'm so not down for all that symbiosis bullshit, I promise to _not _throw you under the bus when your little group of rabid losers ends up turning on you. You know, since it's my responsibility as female lead and all. _Comprende?_"

He deflates a little at that (there's that stubborn, foolish part of him that was actually _hoping_ she'd be a little more open to idea of, you know, being friends) but he covers his disappointment easily. "I can live with that," and he moves to shake her hand to seal the deal but by that time, the girl in question brushes past him in a cloud of perfume and disinterest.

He makes it to the parking lot just in time to see Rachel's car peel away from school grounds in a flurry of screaming tires. He spots his jeep right where he parked this morning in the farthest corner of the lot, purposely away from the crowd of cars. Statistics show that teenagers have higher crash rates than drivers of any other age so he'd rather avoid whatever damage a teenager behind the wheel (most likely distracted by his or her phone; after all, hand-held mobile phone use is highest among drivers ages 15-24, another handy statistic) is bound cause to his beloved black 2005 TJ, Rocky Mountain Edition. Also, he's conveniently near the exit, making for a quick getaway.

Suddenly, the hairs on the back of his neck stand up and he catches two red blurs moving his way out of the corner of his eye. He's still pretty damn far from his jeep and there's no way he's going to get there before they catch up with him unless he makes a mad dash across the parking lot. Have you tried running with a backpack full with text books, a heavy guitar case and, not to mention, glasses? Not the best idea.

So he hides. He's not proud of it but he has made tactical evasion his particular specialty. There are a couple of faculty cars and a wall of shrubbery to his left so he veers off in that direction and hunches down behind Principal Figgins' beat-up SUV. It may not be as humiliating as climbing out of a dumpster but this is still a serious blow to his self-esteem. Of course, just a couple of minutes later, he hears the distinctive sound of Dave Karofsky's breathing (idiot might want to try breathing through his nose for once) as he and another jock steadily approach his location. With a long-suffering sigh (he is so going to be late for work), Noah stands up and hitches the strap of his guitar case higher on his shoulder and glares unimpressed at the two jocks sporting twin evil smirks as he rounds the rear of the SUV and stands before them. His eyes widen when he sees who the other jock is but he stands his ground.

"Hey man, how's it going?" Karofsky flanks Noah and grabs one of his arms in a vise grip just as the taller of the two jocks drapes an arm tightly around Noah's neck, securing him to his side.

With no resistance whatsoever from Noah, they easily drag him away, swiftly walking across the parking lot to the dumpsters that lay ahead of them just around the corner of the school. Noah sighs inwardly. He learned a long time ago that just going along with it was much easier than resisting. He's usually outnumbered anyway and even if he managed to break free of their hold and take off before they tossed him in the dumpster, they'd only come back angrier. The last thing he wants is the jocks getting creative.

It wasn't always like that. That first slushie back in freshman year caught him off guard but he was more than ready to defend himself when they came back for him later that day. He was driven by white-hot rage that time (and four years of Tae Kwon Do his Ma insisted he take to keep his interests well rounded to back him up) and when they attempted to give him the first of many trips to the dumpsters, he fought back, busting more than a couple of lips, handing out a few black eyes and cracking several noses. Of course, where did that get him? Stripped to his boxers and tied to the goal post. If his Ma hadn't stepped out of the locker room to check something in the field, he would've been there for hours.

They release him from the hold they had him in as one holds him under his armpits while the other grabs his legs. Together, they swing a compliant and frankly bored Noah off the ground and up he goes, straight into the day's trash. He does nothing except stare straight up at the blue skies above and in doing so, Noah ends up meeting the angry eyes of his biggest tormentor as he peers over the lip of the dumpster.

"Say hi to your mommy for me, loser," Finn Hudson sneers and throws Noah's guitar case in with him, kicking the side of the dumpster before he takes off with Karofsky, laughing uncontrollably.

Noah closes his eyes and allows himself a moment to collect his emotions. On the bright side, once he jumps down from the dumpster, chances are there won't be any laughter and pointing fingers since the school is pretty much deserted already. He can make the trek to his jeep without any more unpleasant encounters and get out of his now dirty and rotten food-scented clothes and into the emergency change of clothes he keeps in a bag in the back seat. He also has his trusty antibacterial baby wipes, deodorant and his favorite cologne with him. Until he can get home and take a shower, that's the only thing he can do to make sure he doesn't smell like today's rapidly rotting Sloppy Joes.

He's down to his Darth Vader boxers and has scrubbed off no less than fifteen antibacterial wipes over his body when the generic beeping indicating a text received interrupts him. He frowns – he took the time to personalize every single one of his contacts with distinctive songs – and fishes his cell out from the front pocket of his discarded jeans. Flipping it open, he stares down at the envelope flashing on the screen and the unfamiliar number under it. With a shrug, he opens it.

_Hey stud, what r u wearing? I show u mine, u show me yours._

What?

No, seriously. What's going on? Is someone playing an extremely vulgar joke on him? If so, who? He doesn't hand out his number freely and it's not listed either, so it has to be someone who knows him.

_Who is this?_ he types back.

_Ur damsel in distress. Cum help me._

First of all, he's no stranger to the art of sexting. There's this girl from Nebraska, Karen, that he met at music camp two summers ago with whom he maintains a 'relationship' solidly based on mutual sexual gratification ('fuck buddies' seems like such a horrible appellation). Lovely girl, really. She plays the oboe and has the remarkable lung capacity that can only be attained with years of practice on the instrument, and which coincidentally comes in handy in other, much more enjoyable areas. They sext a couple of times every month and going to camp in the Catskills every summer is made all the more enjoyable by their arrangement. He likes this little thing that they have (despite his level of intellect and maturity, he's still just a teenage boy after all) and if Karen's busy, there is still Linda, a cellist and Southern beauty he met under similar circumstances. Unfortunately, her grammar is frankly atrocious and that tends to throw off his game a bit but he makes it work. So whoever the person sending him these texts is, he's ninety-nine percent sure it isn't one of them.

_I repeat: who are you? I demand that you cease and desist until you reveal your identity._

Less than two minutes later his phone lights up again. 1 new picture message.

Genuinely intrigued (can you really blame him?) he opens the message and ends up staring straight at Lauren Zizes' face contorted in what he assumes to be a sensual expression, her forefinger popped inside her mouth. _Baby wanna play?_

He can't turn off his phone fast enough. For that matter, that image is forever ingrained in his brain and Noah doubts even the most invasive psychological treatments can ever remove it. He throws the rest of his clothes on in the cramped space he has and makes quick work of starting the jeep and leaving McKinley.

Not only he is going to be late to his class at the JCC but he's also been mind-molested. What a way to end his day.

* * *

**AN: Oh and in case any of you are in the Tumblr-neighborhood, drop by wickedmessenger (dot) tumblr (dot) com and say hi!**


	6. Chapter 6

**A big fat thank you to everybody who takes the time to read this. Nothing makes us happier than knowing there are loads of people out there who enjoy reading our story nearly as much as we enjoy writing it. You guys rock and your reviews continue to blow us away. **

* * *

A black 1973 Dodge Charger careens around the corner of Vine and Mercer, blowing up a cloud of dust and narrowly missing a little old lady in a red hat and a walker. The woman ends up almost falling on her butt (and breaking her hip) but has enough presence of mind to give the driver a one-fingered salute.

"Shit! Sorry, Mrs. Chavez!" Rachel screams through the open window. She can see the woman getting smaller and smaller in the rear view mirror, shouting curses in Spanish like her life depended on it. Rachel cringes but then shrugs it off. Bitch hated her anyway from the time she was 4 years old and she had the balls to tell her dad that the dead cat on the lady's head was scaring her (it was a wig and considering Mrs. Chavez was flirting – very badly, she might add – with her dad at the time, she kinda gets why the woman hates her).

The car screeches into a spare parking space and the hand brake is barely on before she climbs out and takes off in a sprint towards the soccer field. She had hightailed it out of extended Cheerios practice (a necessary consequence to Glee rehearsals), with the metaphorical hellhounds of Sue Sylvester hot on her tail, only to run smack into Puckerman (and _no_, she's not going to think about that now. Or at all), when she realized what day it was. It was a Wednesday and on Wednesdays, she was supposed to be at Faurot Park at 5, no questions asked. Once she gets within sight of the bleachers, she smoothes her hair and glances at her watch. Fuck yeah, five minutes to spare. She breathes a sigh of relief and gives herself a mental pat on the back. But when 10 minutes go by with no sign of him at all, she starts getting worried. It wasn't like him to be late for anything.

She is scanning the horizon for a mop of dark curly hair when a sudden weight falls on her back, making her shriek.

"Jesus H, Danny!" She turns her head around to glare at the 10 year old currently clinging to her like a spider monkey. "I told you not to do that!"

Her brother smirks at her unrepentantly before he climbs off, leaving Rachel to dust off her Cheerio skirt (now sprinkled liberally with Danny dirt). He looks up at her with brown eyes identical to hers and gives his own version of the Berry glare (honestly, if the kid wasn't so annoying at times, he would be adorably squishable). "Bubbe said you're not supposed to say that name. And I'm not the one who was late!"

"What are you talking about? I was actually _early_!"

"Not if you forgot that practice let out early 40 minutes ago."

She has to hide her wince at this. "Damn. Sorry about that, bud," she sighs. "You okay?"

"I guess," he shrugs, shouldering the bag with his soccer stuff. "Kevin and Karl ended up staying behind to practice some more. Where were you anyway?"

"Give me that," she takes his duffel bag from him. "I got held up at practice. You know how coach is."

Danny scrunches up his nose at her but nods anyway. He is a sad little picture in his grass-stained cleats and jersey as he trudges along and Rachel rolls her eyes. Danny was many things but a quiet kid wasn't one of them. If he clammed up, it was either a sign of the impending Apocalypse or, you know, something was _really_ wrong.

She catches up with him, still hefting his things with one hand. "Hey," she starts, nudging his shoulder. "You mad at me?"

"Kinda," he admits.

She sighs and stops him with a hand on his shoulder. Bending down to his level, she looks him in the eye. "You know I didn't forget you, right?" she says softly. With a grin and a wink, she continues. "You're a pain in my ass but I wouldn't leave you behind for anything."

Almost reluctantly, he smiles back and Rachel can't help but ruffle his sweaty hair. "Okay?" she asks.

"Okay," Danny echoes. It hurts her heart whenever she remembers that a fear of abandonment isn't normal in 10 year olds but she doesn't say a word, merely grips her baby brother's hand in hers a little tighter.

Very few people knew that Rachel had a little brother and even fewer had been witness to interactions between the two. If anyone from school could see the bitchy, fearsome Rachel Berry as Danny saw her, shit would hit the fan. As Q had put it, there was Berry the badass queen and then there was just plain Rachel, and never the twain shall meet. She preferred it that way. Those bozos at McKinley wouldn't know what the fuck to do if they saw this Rachel, the one who woke up at 6 am to squeeze in 30 minutes on the elliptical before cooking breakfast and packing her brother's lunch; who had their weekly schedule down to a science, with Danny either with her or Mrs. Berenbaum next door but never, ever home alone; who spent enough time going over fourth grade social studies, she could actually teach it blindfolded.

They are taking their sweet time making their way back to the parking lot, Danny piping up every few seconds about something that happened at school or at practice, when she spies two identical blonde heads over by the bleachers. She elbows him and points towards them. "D'ya wanna say goodbye to the K's?"

His eyes widen comically (as if they weren't big enough) and he actually starts urging her to go faster. "Nah, it's okay. Let's just go," he babbles.

"What's wrong?" Her brow scrunches in confusion as she looks between her brother and his two best friends. "Did the three of you get into a fight? 'Cos I seriously can't beat up 10 year olds, even if they're being dickwads. That would just be wrong."

"No, it's not…it's just…" Danny stutters. He glances behind him and realizes that the twins have already noticed them. "Too late."

Rachel stares at the two boys that seem to have magically appeared in front of her. "Um, whoa, okay…hey, guys! How's it hangin'?"

Kevin and Karl are looking at her all weird with matching smiles on their faces. And holy shit, was Karl (or is it Kevin?) actually blushing? "Hi, Rachel," they say shyly.

Suddenly, Danny is pulling on her hand with a surprising amount of force, practically dragging her away with a hastily shouted "_Sorry-we-gotta-go-we-need-to-get-home-see-you-guys-tomorrow!_" over his shoulder. It is only when they get to her car that she is able to pry her hand from his iron grip.

"Okay, Danny – mind telling me why the sudden intense, burning need to get home?" Rachel stares at her brother, her eyebrow arched dangerously high. "Anything I need to know?"

His face would be comical if he didn't look so tragic. After a few false starts (and a very suspicious reddening of his ears, which in Danny-language meant extra supreme embarrassment), he mutters, "My stupid friends have crushes on you."

She blinks once, then twice…then laughs her fucking head off. Danny somehow manages to turn redder. "Don't laugh. It's embarrassing. Do you know what it's like having your friends talk about your 'hot cheerleader sister'?" he says with a frown on his brow and his arms folded across his chest.

"No, and I'm pretty stoked I don't have to know," she manages to wheeze out between giggles. She wipes her eyes. "Besides, aren't you guys supposed to be all about how girls have yucky cooties?"

He rolls her eyes at her. "We're 10; we're not stupid."

Still wracked by residual giggles, she ushers him into the passenger seat and stows his things in the trunk. When she gets to the driver's seat, Danny still looks mutinous. "Kiddo, relax," she placates, starting up the car. "It's a phase. They'll get over it eventually."

"I don't care," he pouts. "It's gross. So stop it."

She tries to contain her laughter again. "How about this – I promise I'll try to dampen my natural awesomeness and be as much of a horrible big sister as possible in front of your friends. That fair?"

Danny ponders the offer seriously then nods once. "Okay. But you have to promise to be really, really horrible. Like…Santana horrible."

The sound of Rachel laughing emanates from the open window as the black car peels away from the nearly empty parking lot.

* * *

The Berrys live in a comfortable 4-bedroom bungalow in one of Lima's nicer neighborhoods. The house is a picturesque little thing, all light gray with dark red shutters and white trim, a white picket fence, 2-car garage, a lawn and a huge backyard. It is well-kept and homey, mostly due to the efforts of the lone female Berry. As Rachel parks her car in the driveway, she stares at the house and sighs. Of course, with only two Berrys in residence more often than not, it is also far too big and lonely for the most part.

"Danny!" Rachel shouts, as she struggles to lock her car while holding on to her messenger bag, her books, her Cheerio gym bag, a bag of groceries _and_ Danny's shit. "Swear to God, you better come here and help or you're gonna be in big trouble!"

"Sorry!" he replies, bouncing back from where he ran off to (in this case, the backyard). He takes his things from his sister and runs back up the driveway, impatiently waiting for Rachel to unlock the front door. "What's for dinner, Rach?" he asks, bouncing on his toes.

"I honestly don't know," she mutters, attempting to get the door open while juggling everything. Her stomach growls and she groans. They had dropped by the Save-a-Lot for some groceries in her guilty attempt to be a good big sister and actually have a home-cooked meal on the table. Now she's totally regretting it. Why did she even think of trying to cook right now? What the hell was wrong with take-out anyway? And why won't the stupid key go into the stupid hole?

She almost falls in when the door opens from the inside suddenly. The light from the living room backlights the tall figure but she sees enough to make her smile so fucking big, it would almost be embarrassing.

"_Dad_!" Danny shrieks as he jumps on the man.

"Danny-boy!" Leon Berry catches his son and hugs him close. He pulls back to look at him, a wide grin accenting his boyish face, unruly dark curls unusual in a law enforcement officer falling into his gray eyes. "How's my favorite son?"

Danny rolls his eyes playfully at the old joke. "I'm your only son."

"How about that?" Leon replies wryly, giving his youngest a huge smacking kiss on the cheek (to said youngest's loud "Ewww") before putting him down. "Go wash up."

Once Danny has left, he turns to the other person in the room. Rachel had been quietly putting her school stuff in a corner as she watched the interaction between father and son. There is a lopsided smile on Leon's face when he looks at his oldest. "Pumpkin."

Rachel smiles as he puts his arm around her shoulders and hugs her tight. "Hi dad."For all intents and purposes, Rachel Berry was, is and always would be a daddy's girl. And this particular one hadn't seen her father in practically 2 weeks. "I thought you were gonna be in Cinci until next Tuesday?"

Leon shrugs as they walk towards the kitchen. "The guy was a putz. Confessed before we could even go on the stakeout so the SAC gave us the rest of the week off."

"Awesome!" Danny joins in. "You're gonna be here for my game on Friday!"

"I guess I am," Leon agrees with a waggle of his eyebrows. "And to celebrate the fact that I'm actually home for longer than 2 days, I have…PIZZA!"

"Have I told you how glad I am that you're home?" Rachel breathes.

* * *

Oh, this is sooo going straight to her ass but, as she angles for the largest slice of double cheese (and tries to keep her brother from getting his grubby little fingers on it), she finds that she doesn't care. Pizza night, whenever it comes, is a sacred night in the Berry household. And considering this is the first time in a long time that they are having it together, it transcends into a religious experience.

She is sprinkling red pepper flakes on her slice while her dad attempts to keep up with his kids' lives. "So what's new since I've been gone?" Leon asks.

Her eyes meet Danny's over the table and she cocks her head at him, silently telling him to go first. As he launches into a complete recounting of what happened the entire two weeks Leon was gone (no, seriously, it's complete – including what he had for breakfast, lunch and dinner), Rachel is pondering what exactly the situation calls for.

What does she say? "_Well, dad, I pulled a wicked prank on a group of glee club losers in front of the entire school and I only managed to _not_ get expelled for it but now I have to join said glee club losers and do a month's detention with the scariest Beiste this side of Sylvester and did I mention that I plan to take over the loser club with my friends-slash-minions so I won't have to sink into loserdom myself, all while singing lead with the most infuriating boy on the planet. And how was your week?_" Yeah, she doesn't think that would cut it. The only thing that gets her dad through his very dangerous job as a run-of-the-mill BAMF who chases after bad guys is the knowledge that his kids are safe, happy and fed, that his young son is a pitching prodigy and math wiz, and that his daughter is a perfect , responsible princess. Aside from taking care of her little brother, her job is basically to make sure her dad is clueless in the best way possible. She doesn't lie to him per se (it isn't really lying if you're not saying anything). As far as Agent Leon Berry was concerned, Rachel was a popular, nationally-ranked cheerleader who was on the honor roll and never got into trouble.

Well, 4 out of 5 ain't bad.

By the time Danny is finished with his retelling of the awesome time in science class when Tara Belleci accidentally released the ant farm and they crawled all over Mr. Savage and made his face grow big, she figures that simpler is always better.

Leon still has an amused grin on his face when he turns to his only daughter. "How about you, pumpkin? What's new with you?"

Her tone is deceptively innocent when she shrugs and replies, "Oh, I joined glee club but that's pretty much it."

"Glee?" Danny questions, confusion painted all over his face. "But I thought you said glee was for pus—_OW!"_

Rachel retracts her leg swiftly from where she kicked him under the table and pastes a semi-innocent smile on her face.

"What's glee club?" her dad asks.

"It's like show choir, dad." At the look of perplexity he still has on, she sighs and explains further. "You know – singing and dancing with a group while wearing costumes. That sorta thing."

"That's great, pumpkin," Leon praises. "It's nice to have you interested in extra-curriculars other than cheering on a bunch of juiced up idiots," he punctuates the last part by miming some pom-pom shaking, to Danny's delighted snicker. He likes it so much, he does it again.

Rachel rolls her eyes. Fuck, her family is so retarded. "Da-aaad," she says reverting to a 13 year old. "You do know that I do more than just wave pom-poms right?"

"I know," he winks. "But I really am glad about this glee club thing." She smiles (a little awkwardly, in her opinion) in reply and they lapse into silence, munching on their respective slices, before Leon remarks absently. "You know, your mom was an amazing singer."

Suddenly, everything seems to pause and Rachel has to swallow down her bite with difficulty. Oh, she knows.

You see, when Leon Berry was a young FBI trainee in Virginia 18 years ago, he met the woman of his dreams. Her name was Shelby Corcoran, a beautiful, talented, passionate actress who was in town with a traveling theater company from Chicago. The company was only supposed to stay for the summer; she ended up staying indefinitely. Theirs was a whirlwind romance spanning 4 months …until it all came to a grinding halt once they found out that she was pregnant. 1 month later, a rabbi was marrying them at the local synagogue, and 7 months after that came a screaming 6-lb 4-oz miniature of her mother they named Rachel Barbra.

They moved back to his hometown of Lima, Ohio and by that time, their romance-tinted bubble had long since burst. See, Shelby had wanted to be many things – Broadway legend, Grammy-winning singer, acclaimed TV actress – but one thing she had never wanted was to be a mother, something which her new husband never knew. She wanted to be a star; he just wanted them to be a family. To be fair to Shelby, she did try, and for 8 years, she struggled to be happy with the hand she was dealt. They even ended up having another child – Daniel Benjamin Berry, born 7 years after his big sister.

Of course, Rachel had no idea what was going on in her mother's head. All she knew was her dad and her mom were awesome and that she had the best family in the world. There was laughter and music every day and, if she was lucky, pancakes with whipped cream on the weekends. They were _happy_. Rachel has to struggle now to remember a time when she was as happy or carefree.

As for Shelby, there was no one Rachel looked up to more than her mom and no one she wanted to be like more than her. Everything her mom did was right and perfect and good. But as time went on, the weird looks on her mom's face whenever she looked at Danny or even at her kept coming oftener and oftener. The fights did, too. This went on for a long while until the day Rachel went into her parent's room and found her dad alone, crying and clutching a Dear John letter. Turned out that the woman of his dreams had dreams of her own…and they didn't include the life that they had built together.

(That was also the one and only time Rachel ever saw her tall, strapping father cry.)

"Really? She was?" Danny asks innocently as Rachel clenches her fists under the table.

Danny was only a baby when Shelby abandoned them to become a star. Of course, the nearest thing her mother had done to become that star she once purported to be was a 5-minute stint on one episode of _Law and Order: SVU_ as a dead hooker. Rachel, who Tivo'd every episode religiously (what? Olivia Benson is her homegirl), couldn't bring herself to watch even one second of it. What was the point? The woman stopped being her mother when she walked out the door and ripped her family apart. And as she looks around the table, she sees Shelby's leavings – a man who spent practically every waking hour working to make ends meet, a 10 year old kid who only knew his mother from pictures, and one screwed-up teenager who was left trying to keep it all together.

"She was wonderful," Leon sighs wistfully.

Their trip down memory lane is interrupted by the sound of Rachel smacking her hands forcefully on the table. "Okay, who wants some ice cream?" she says tightly.

(She adores her dad, she does. But sometimes she just wants to smack him upside the head for still carrying a torch for a woman who thought of them as nothing more than disposable.)

Rachel spends the rest of the night watching _The Fellowship of the Ring_ with her two men (she rolls her eyes at their geekiness but finds herself quoting lines along anyway) and gorging on buttered popcorn and mint chocolate ice cream (oh, she is definitely going to pay for that at the next Cheerio weigh-in). There are smiles on Leon and Danny's faces and, while she would never, _ever, _admit it to anyone, she's kinda having a pretty good time too.

She sighs, squished between her dad and her brother, the remembrance of fuck-awful times past fading quickly in her head. It's just how it is – there are times that life is just plain shitty…and then there are moments like this when you can't help but think that life can be pretty damn good.

* * *

It's day 3 and phase 2 of Operation: Glee Makeover. She got the girls already; it's time to go after the boys. For today's agenda, she thinks it's high time to go after Mike Chang.

Mike is a nice enough guy; he definitely never gave her any trouble like Karofsky or Azimio or any of those other idiots that needed to be kept in line every once in a while. In fact, Mike is actually kind of cool when he's not too busy being quiet as fuck. She thinks he's going to fold (like a cheap hooker who got hit in the stomach by a fat guy with sores on his face) once she appeals to his humane side. If he didn't…well, Rachel Berry isn't a legend for her powers of persuasion for nothing.

(She's pretty sure the teachers' lounge is still buzzing how she managed to 'persuade' Mrs. Cranston to raise her B in World History to an A+.)

She walks into the boys' locker room like she owns the place (let's be honest here, she practically does), her skirt bouncing and teasing her thighs. The entire football team just got off practice so the room is full of teenage boys in various states of undress. She is greeted by wolf whistles and catcalls and she revels in the power, a sexy smirk permanently fixed on her face.

Until a completely naked Scott DeVry plants himself right in her path.

"Ugh! Cover that up, DeVry," she commands.

The douchebag actually has the nerve to look her up and down and lick his lips. "Whatsamatter, Berry? Don't you wanna get a good look at what you're missing?"

Her brow ticks up. "Sadly, I can't. I left my magnifying glass at home," she replies sweetly.

The rest of the locker room erupts in laughter and Scott turns red. "Fuck you," he manages to retort.

"Oh honey," Rachel mocks with an evil smile. "With _that, _I don't think you can." And she saunters away, the snickers of the football team as a satisfying soundtrack. Once she gets to the middle of the room, she puts two fingers in her mouth and lets out an ear-piercing whistle. "Okay, everyone has exactly 10 seconds to get the fuck out of here or else I spread the word among the greater female population of Lima that your 'girlfriend' is actually plastic and inflatable. And considering what I know, I'd have photographic evidence," she barks. Seeing the hesitation in some guys' eyes, she glares at everyone. "_Move_!"

There is chaos as everyone runs around like chickens with their heads cut off, trying to get out of the locker room before Rachel Berry ended them. Some guys are running for the exit with only one leg in their jeans or with their shirts half-on. A few actually are going out just in their towels (to the delighted shrieks of the female population outside the door). When she sees a tall, lanky Asian about to escape with the rest of them, she calls him out. "Except you," Rachel says, pointing at one Mike Chang. "You stay."

Mike gulps, buttoning his jeans hastily and running a hand through his wet hair. "Um, Rachel, don't get me wrong…you're totally hot and all but—"

She rolls her eyes upwards. "Zip it, Chang. I'm not here to sample your dimsum." She licks her lips in anticipation. "I'm here because I have a proposition for you."

"Okaaaay…" he drawls.

"You're joining glee club," she informs him. "Be there at tomorrow at three."

He's actually speechless for a couple of seconds, staring at her like she's grown two heads or something. "What?"

A spark of anger flashes in her eyes. "I know you heard me. Don't make me repeat myself."

"What if I say no?" he frowns, crossing his arms.

"Okay, first of all, I'm not _asking_ you; I'm _telling_ you. And second, you're going to say yes because unless you do, the entire school is going to learn some very interesting things about you."

His face falls, his already fair complexion turning a sickly pale color. "What things?" he chokes out.

"Oh, things like the videos I found on your laptop that one time I was snooping around in your room." She smirks at him and wags her finger in his face. "Naughty Mike, keeping that kind of talent hidden from us. Tell me, were you the 2006 or 2007 teen free dance champion? Or was it ballroom dance? I can't really remember."

He gapes. "You went through my personal things?"

"Please," she scoffs. "It was your party, the door was wide open and your laptop was right there. It would have been insulting if I _didn't _go through it."

"I don't wanna hear it." Mike snaps. Rachel's smile doesn't falter but her eyebrow arches up a notch, her expression crystal clear in its meaning: he better watch his tone when he's talking to her. "So what?" he stutters a little, his voice quieter and looking like he was about to shit his pants. "You're blackmailing me? You gonna show my videos to everybody if I don't do what you say?"

If one didn't know Rachel, they would have missed the slight softening in her face. It was a constant struggle, being so badass. "Well, kinda. But honestly, I think you'd enjoy glee. You're a great dancer, Mike; you shouldn't be ashamed of it."

A reluctant smile tugs his lips and two bright red blotches appear on his cheeks. "Thank you." He ducks his head in embarrassment.

Rachel grins a truly satisfied grin and starts walking away before stopping and looking at him knowingly. "Besides, I would think being in glee would serve your purposes nicely."

"What do you mean?" he asks suspiciously.

"Well, I'm a very thorough person, Mike. It wouldn't have been right to go through your computer without going through _everything. _Especially one folder in particular." There is a wicked little glint in her eye. "'C-squared' mean anything to you? Think about it."

She leaves him speechless, with a carefree reminder to be punctual thrown over her shoulder.

One down, two to go.

* * *

Trouble presents itself in the freakishly tall form of Finn Hudson.

She knows Finn, knows he can sing because during their short-lived summer fling of two entire days, he took her to the lake and sang along to Journey the entire drive to and from there (that right there was a sign, if there ever was one, that he belonged in glee). She supposes she gave up on their 'relationship' too quickly, but she could tell it wasn't going to work out. They had nothing in common (besides their friends and their spots in the popular crowd) and they had zero chemistry. Kissing him was like kissing her cousin. Plus there was the one time when they made out in the lake and he totally jizzed in his pants and then freaked out because he thought she would get pregnant. Yeah, that was the end of that. She likes her men with more than one neuron (and with less of a hair trigger), thank you very much.

But despite having a bit of a mean streak and a penchant for preying on the lower rungs of McKinley society, he's not entirely a bad guy. Which presents a big problem for her because no matter how deep she digs, she just can't find any dirt on him (and she's dug deep; having an FBI father is great for getting access to all sorts of official records). He is the world's worst driver and has hit a mailman, a paperboy, two dogs and five trees at last count, but that's common knowledge. Fender-Bender might as well be his middle name. Other than pity Mrs. Hudson for the fortune he must cost her on insurance premiums, that information is useless to Rachel.

Everyone has a weak spot though, and the star quarterback is no exception. Rachel is just lucky this particular weak spot fits in so well with her plans. With a serene smile gracing her features, she approaches him in the hallway while he's swapping books for his afternoon classes.

(He's actually frowning at his history book, looking at it like he's never seen the thing before. She has no idea how he made it this far in his academic career.)

"Hi Finn." She smiles warmly, leaning back against the locker next to him.

"Hey Rach." He treats her with a lopsided smile that has the better part of the female student body enamored. "What's up?"

"Oh, you know. The usual," she shrugs. "Turning heads and taking names, avoiding Puckerman and the other gleeks to the best of capacity so I won't be tempted to end them."

He frowns, nodding. "Yeah, I heard something about that…is it true? Did Figgins really force you to join Homo Explosion?"

"Yep. Gotta be in my best behavior too." She bites the inside of her cheek looking up at him.

"Can they really do that?" She nods. "Well, that sucks. I mean, do they even know what that's going to do to your rep?"

She chooses to ignore that and instead focuses on making sure Finn Hudson is going to be right there in Homo Explosion with her. Hell, if she was going down, she was taking everybody with her.

"I dunno," she shrugs again. With Finn she needs to play it cool, like it's not a big deal. If she comes off like she's too invested on this conversation, her plan could backfire irrevocably. "I mean, yeah, it totally sucks that I have to spend time with those losers, but on the bright side, Quinn's joined up too," she casually mentions, casting a quick glance to see his reaction to her words. "I need all the support I can get, you know? And come to think of it, I might be able to get Sam to join too. You know, if he can get enough time away from his busy schedule at the Christian Youth Center."

She gives the information some time to sink in before she continues. "By the way, Finn, how's your shoulder?" she asks, all solicitous. "I noticed you haven't started in the last two games since that little incident with West Lima. Oh well, I guess Sam's been doing a good enough job as starting quarterback. How many touchdowns did we get the last game? Silly me, I can't remember." She punctuates her sentence with an inane little giggle and watches Finn's jaw clench.

One important thing you need to know about Finn is that he, Quinn and Sam Evans are part of the weirdest love triangle ever. Quinn just goes from Sam to Finn and back again, taking the drama to the extreme every time she breaks up with one and goes back to the other. Add to that all asinine male posturing about who was the king of the school and the star quarterback and honestly, you could just gag her with a spoon. Shit would be annoying if it wasn't so funny to watch. Who needs _The Vampire Diaries_ when you have the Christian Threesome Chronicles playing out right in front of you?

"Quinn joined glee? Why?" he asks suspiciously.

"Oh, she's just a friend like that." She grins winningly before delivering her final salvo. "She was all for it especially since it gives me primo opportunity to mess with Puckerman's head. Why do you think I didn't throw a bitch fit at Figgins when he made me join?" Yeah, she's just going to keep the little tidbit about possibly being expelled under her hat.

See, another thing you need to know about Finn is that he _hates_ Noah Puckerman. Rachel's not sure why exactly but the mere mention of his name has Finn seething. Now she has her fun with Puckerman but she has her reasons. As far as she knows, Finn doesn't, yet he is Puckerman's most vicious tormentor. She watches in fascination as his fists clench and he actually starts turning red. Jackpot.

"And Quinn is okay with that?" She rolls her eyes at how fixated Finn was with the blonde. Seriously, he was like a dog with a bone. He continues, "It doesn't sound like her at all. I mean, it's not like she picks on anyone ever. She's just so nice."

Rachel shrugs. She's not about to tell him the real reason Q is joining. He's right though – Quinn never went out of her way to make other people miserable or torture them for the fun of it. Never meant she went out of her way to stop it either. For all her angelic looks and demeanor, Quinn, quite frankly, didn't give a flying fuck. She (and Rachel is saying this with as much love in her heart as possible) could be a selfish little bitch if she wanted to be.

"Just think about all the fun to be had," she smirks, leaning closer to him like they're sharing a secret.

A dark glint appears in Finn's eyes, the same one he gets whenever he sees Puckerman, and he nods slowly. "That does sound pretty cool," he says, closing his locker and falling into step beside her.

Rachel resists the urge to do a little jig and they part ways at the end of the hall. Right on cue, Finn texts her in the middle of sixth period, asking if it's okay to join glee club too. Apparently the lure of endless torturing opportunities and Quinn Fabray-fun time is enough to risk his popularity.

She couldn't be happier.

* * *

With Sam, just the prospect of Quinn being in glee club is enough to persuade him. Rachel would slap the boy for his utter stupidity in falling for a girl that can't make up her mind, if slapping him didn't equate to slapping a poor defenseless puppy with highlights.

(Basically, she just walks up to him on the football field with a "Q's joining glee. You should too, if you ever want even the possibility of pussy in the remote future.")

By the time she's done, Rachel is exhausted. All this manipulating was hard. Still, she perks up when she thinks about the upcoming glee club meeting. More importantly, she thinks about the look on Puckerman's face when she comes in with 3 football players in tow.

It should be criminal to have this much fun.

(And if late at night when sleep eludes her all she can think about is Puckerman's little welcoming speech, replaying it word-by-word until her stomach is in knots and she feels something suspiciously similar to guilt fist her gut, all she does is close her eyes tightly shut and ignore it, wishing it'll be gone come morning.)

* * *

**Don't forget to review!**


	7. Chapter 7

**AN: Hello, again. It's us, again. Here is the latest chapter of our story. We want to thank all the people who reviewed so far; your words make this whole thing worthwhile. To all the new readers – welcome to the madness! And to those who have stuck with us from the very first chapter – we'd love to hear from you. So, please, **_**please **_**review :)**

**OOO**

When Noah enters the choir room, he is assaulted by the sight of three football players (one of whom could possibly be even worse than Rachel Berry) in a huddle with a tiny Cheerio in the middle barking orders. He has to take a good look around before being completely positive that he isn't having a hallucination brought about by his mom's packed lunch (honestly, sautéed bean sprouts with vegan mock duck is no man's friend).

What in the world is going on? He looks closely at what the three boys are wearing, the mere lack of letterman jackets enough of a shock to his nervous system. _Identical white shirts…somewhat baggy and torn jeans…baseball caps artfully askew_…his eyes widen and the cold grip of fear hits him when he realizes that the three are actually there for an _audition_.

An argument is starting within the little huddle and he can distinctly hear Finn Hudson mutter a confident _We gots this _to the girl in the middle. And he is treated to the wonderful spectacle of Rachel Berry grimacing and rubbing her forehead as if in extreme pain. She walks away from the spectacularly dressed trio with a gesture like she was washing her hands off the entire thing, which makes Noah ponder how bad things have to be for Rachel to get like that. He doesn't have enough time to wonder because in comes Mr. Schuester and after a brief conference with Rachel, he nods at the three boys.

Some very familiar music starts playing immediately, the boyband wannabes in front of them start dancing and gyrating and bringing their hands up in the air and _oh dear god…_

_**Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh.**_

_**Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh.**_

_Everybody's always talkin' 'bout who's on top._

**Don't cross our path 'cause you're gonna get stomped.**

_We ain't gonna give anybody any slack._

**And if you try to keep us down we're gonna come right back,**

_**And you know we're**_

_**Hangin' tough, hangin' tough, hangin' tough.**_

**Are you tough enough?**

_**Hangin' tough, hangin' tough, hangin' tough.**_

_We're rough._

_**Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh,**_** just hangin' tough,**

_**Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh**__,_** hangin' tough.**

The room is in utter silence after the last beats of the song die and the three boys stop dancing. Noah doesn't know whether to laugh at the performance or feel sorry for them. They were _bad_. Mike Chang can dance, yes; he's actually very good. Of course, considering the kind of dancing the song required, he gives Mike the benefit of the doubt until he actually does some steps worth doing. He doubts his talents would be of use to New Directions, though, merely because with the exception of the Cheerios (and maybe Tina), the rest of them have absolutely no dance knowledge or training. Besides, Mike isn't exactly a singer and given this is a _glee club_, an above-average singing capability is required.

Sam Evans _can_ sing and he'd probably be a good addition to the club if he wasn't the second most awkward person he's ever seen perform. Those hip movements? No. Just…_no_. But then again, Kurt's facial expressions on stage (really, the boy looks like a cat being declawed) aren't much better either, so maybe Sam can make the cut. Finn Hudson, in case you were wondering, takes the top prize in the awkwardness and altogether lack of talent contest. He sounds like a whiny twelve year old girl trying to be tough and his showface resembles that of a constipated infant. It is not a pretty sight.

(And he's not just saying that because he hates the guy.)

He does give them points for the song selection. He may not ever be able to wear his NKOTB t-shirt after this, but it was accurate. All in all though, with just one exception, there's no way they measure up.

Mr. Schuester thinks differently. "Welcome to glee club," he grins, reaching out to shake Finn's hand.

"_What?" _Noah snaps, standing up so quickly his chair falls over (he's been doing that a lot lately). "No. No way."

"Noah, settle down," Schue says with a warning tone.

"I will not settle down. This is insanity. Were you even listening to the song? It was terrible."

"I happen to think they were great," he says confidently. "And we need three more members. My word is final."

Noah's head snaps to the right, eyes shooting deadly daggers at one Rachel Berry sitting all the way down the first row of seats. He grits out, "Outside._Now_," and bolts out the door without glancing back to make sure she was following.

"What's got your panties in a twist, _Puke-rman_?" she sneers as soon as the choir room door is closed behind her.

"Shut up." He ignores the outraged little huff she lets out, drags his teeth over his bottom lip, biting so hard, he nearly draws blood. It's a poor attempt to control his temper and the pain doesn't distract him from the fact that the petite brunette standing before him with her nose up in the air is destroying his life. "You promised you wouldn't do this."

"Do what, twerp?"

"Fuck with my club!" Yes, he curses occasionally. It's an unattractive habit but a remarkably effective way to release stress. It said so somewhere in _The 7 Habits for Highly Effective Teens._"I thought after that first glee club meeting, that you finally got it. After that talk we had, I thought you _understood_. You promised you wouldn't ruin glee club for me! Does your word mean nothing?"

"Hey, hold up. I didn't ruin shit for you." Rachel advances on him, jabbing her finger in his chest.

He brushes her hand away, his jaw clenched so tight, his words nearly come out as grunts. "You think? Then please tell me what the hell is Finn Hudson doing in there. You know he hates me so what in the name of god would possess you to somehow convince him to join up?"

She snorts a laugh. "Okay, you apparently don't have a problem being part of a losing team, but _I_ do. I'm not gonna just sit around for a whole goddamned year and sing fucking Journey with nothing to show for it. If I have to stick around with you losers, the least I can do is try and make you win something for a change and to do that we need enough members to qualify. Am I right or what?"

"And you couldn't get someone else instead of him?"

"He's a fantastic singer and I personally think he has a lot of unexplored potential," Rachel says brazenly so that there's no doubt in his mind that that's a lie she's planning to stick with.

"That's bullshit. He is, and I'm being wildly generous with my assessment here, an average singer and you know it. And you don't care about glee or winning so don't feed me that crap. You don't care about any of the people behind that door. In fact, I don't believe you care about anyone at all. You just brought Hudson along because you're so messed up in the head that you enjoy watching me suffer."

"Yeah, well," Rachel says mildly with an easy smile and he tries to ignore it but Noah can see clearly past her impassive façade and the anger slowly building behind it is promising to blow up any minute now. "You're just gonna have to suck it up. You heard Schue: his word is final. They're staying."

Noah falls silent, regarding her closely for a few moments. She holds her ground, arms folded across her chest, tapping her foot impatiently. He takes a deep breath and almost laughs. "You know, you're a bitch," he says, quite nonchalantly. She gapes, her mouth rounded in a perfect 'o' shape, shock striking her features. "You're a heartless bitch and a horrible human being and sometimes I wonder what the hell happened to you to turn you into the awful person you are now. At this point, I don't believe I care anymore. I don't know how you manage to look at yourself in the mirror every day. You're just a cruel, spoiled little brat with nothing better to do than make everyone else as unhappy as you. I can't believe I was giving you a chance. I can't believe I was ever your friend." He shakes his head. "I'm out of here."

He stalks away from her. He literally can't look at her right now. What the fuck is her problem? One day, he's welcoming her to glee club and he's actually happy about it because maybe it meant a fresh start for them then she goes and ruins everything. She couldn't just leave well enough alone. Her best friends joined the club so it's not like she was completely alone and if she really meant what she said about getting the necessary members to qualify, she could've just found someone other than Finn Hudson. She knows better than anybody how much he likes to pick on Noah and that's not suddenly going to change because he joined New Directions. If anything, it's going to get worse.

What the hell did they (_he_) ever do to them (_her_) to warrant all the hatred? Glee club is the only thing they had left, their sanctuary against the insults and the bullying. But like everything else, in comes Rachel Berry and takes it away from them.

(He wishes he'd never met her. It'd be easier to just hate her like he hates Hudson if he didn't have vivid memories of the first summer he spent in Lima. If he didn't remember that Rachel Berry.)

He's standing by his jeep glaring at the locked door when he realizes he can't get in. His keys are in his backpack, which he left behind at the choir room with his guitar. He wasn't planning on leaving so abruptly when he bolted out of there with Rachel in tow. Actually, he didn't expect that was going to happen at all. He was just so angry and the volatile temper he so tries to control just wanted to scream at the girl who's pretty much responsible for turning high school into his own personal hell. He doesn't usually lose his temper like that (or at all) but it happens occasionally and it's never pretty. It also always ends with him feeling terrible, immediately regretting losing it, and wanting nothing more than go back and apologize.

He's contemplating sitting down under a tree and waiting for rehearsal to let out so he can rush back into school and retrieve his stuff (maybe Artie will realize he left them behind and bring it to him?) when he hears someone calling his name. Silly him, he turns around.

And gets hit straight in the face with his backpack.

(Ouch.)

His reflexes are as sharp as it gets so even though his head is throbbing and he's pretty sure he has a permanent imprint of his glasses on his face (he has a lot of books in his backpack okay? Don't judge) he manages to grab a hold of it before it falls to the concrete. Once his vision clears, he zeroes in on none other than a seething, panting Rachel Berry ten feet away from him and rapidly approaching him, all but dragging his precious guitar by the neck. He winces but doesn't say anything. At least she was mindful enough to stuff it inside the case before she sprinted after him.

His survival instincts are yelling at him to put at least a couple of miles between him and her fabulous fury before she snaps and chops him into little pieces, but he's just going to go ahead and ignore them. He's not in the mood to be afraid of a girl.

"Next time you storm out, don't leave your shit behind."

She shoves the guitar his way, her voice eerily low, even-toned, an absolute contrast to the livid mess she looks like. She's not screaming at him and he knows she's not going to. She's not going to lose control, tackle him to the ground and punch him with her tiny little fists. Maybe tomorrow, a couple of meatheads will beat the ever-loving shit out of him under her express orders but he'll deal with that when the time comes. Right now, there's nothing she can do to him. For the first time since he's known this version of her, Noah has the advantage.

So he just walks away.

OOO

He remembers the day he realized he was meant to be a rock star as clear as if it were yesterday. He was four years old and his family had just moved to Nashville. They're originally from Texas but with the number of times they've moved since his Ma changes schools every few years, he feels like he's from all over the place. Shannon wasn't interested in coaching winning football teams. No, she likes a challenge, so she only takes the worst teams in the country, coaches them till they're winners, then moves on to the next loser school. She could probably be coaching college football teams or even the NFL but she prefers their simple life.

Anyway, they'd just moved to Nashville and his Mom was teaching a yoga class at the park on Sundays so he to got play around and pretty much do whatever he wanted to do. His Mom is very liberal. Most people wouldn't even think to let a four year old loose in a park but she firmly believed that Noah should be left alone to cultivate his independence at an early age in order to become a responsible adult in charge of his own actions and mind. He knew better than to talk to strangers, had memorized his address and his mothers' phone numbers and, should he need to, he was quite fond of biting to defend himself, so there really was no danger.

He was wandering around when he met the man whom he'll refer to as his first true musical influence later in life, when the avid reporters from E! and Rolling Stone inevitably ask about the inspirations in his life. He never knew his name, but the man would stand every Sunday in the same spot under a large maple tree and play his guitar. People would stop and listen for a while, smile and nod and drop change into the man's open guitar case.

Noah would sit there every Sunday as well, sometimes alone, sometimes with his Mom and sometimes with his sitter and he never grew tired of watching the man strum and pluck at his guitar, the notes pouring out of it. It was fascinating.

So one day he approached the man and asked him if he could play too. The man handed over his battered guitar, humoring him and watching avidly as Noah positioned his little fingers the way he'd seen the man do so many times and strummed. The first couple of notes were awkward and frankly terrible, but after a few tries, the inexpert notes were flowing effortlessly and sounding more and more like what he knew guitar playing should sound like. The man was impressed, especially when Noah told him it was the first time he'd ever touched a guitar, and he told him that he had a gift. That night while they were having dinner, he told his moms about it and insisted he take guitar lessons immediately.

And now here he is, the product of thirteen years of guitar and piano lessons, vocal training and music composition workshops sitting on his driveway, engine still running and griping the wheel so hard his knuckles are white, shaking intense fury.

Teenage angst is BS, okay? He doesn't really know what those kids with the whole 'everyone hates me, my parents don't understand me and everything is sooo confusing, my life is over so I might just off myself and get it over with' come from. He has a phenomenal parental unit. His mothers love him and they'd do anything for him. He's well provided for, he has an education and a future. He doesn't really know what else he could ever need. Okay, he has a hard time at school. Whatever. It's just high school. He has a slight problem with being in social situations since all that time moving around and being the weird new kid weren't exactly conducive to forming relationships but he deals with it. He knows who he is and if the majority of WMHS has a problem with it, then they can stuff it. He's not going to let them dictate who he is and what he does. He'd rather stand out from the crowd and get a slushie facial every morning than blend in. And he has enough to be thankful for in his life that he really doesn't care that school basically sucks for him. Not much, anyway.

But today _really_ sucked. More than the auditorium slushage and that one time Rachel Berry put a laxative in his food. He still doesn't know how she did that, but the lunch lady never liked him so much to begin with so maybe it wasn't so hard to convince her to look the other way (this is also the reason his Mom packs his lunch now. He curses Rachel's name every time he has to munch down lentil burgers and rice cakes). Today was worse because she successfully invaded glee club with her merry band of lackeys and took away from him the only thing he had going for him at school. It used to be the happiest part of his day and now he never wants to go back again. Okay, he officially welcomed Quinn, Santana and Brittany and he doesn't really object to Evans and Chang joining for anything other than the fact that they're sub-par in the talent department. And he can even thank Rachel for signing up six members in less than a week when they've been trying for years, but he just can't get over the fact that she deliberately brought Finn Hudson along. Rachel and him might not get along, but the animosity between Hudson and him far surpasses it. It's hatred and it goes both ways and it's been like that since the beginning, so it's pretty much a given that it's not going to change.

He still can't believe he called her a bitch. And yeah, she deserved it (he can admit to himself that she definitely deserved more than that) but he's not fooling himself here. Retaliation awaits for him behind the doors of WMHS. She may not be able to do anything to him (and the backpack-smacking doesn't count because he's not a wuss and he's not telling on her) but she has her ways. She can easily have the jocks go after him and break his face. That would truly be unfortunate as he likes his face very much. His moms are always saying he got his sperm donor's chiseled bone structure and his Mom's fantastic olive complexion so he'd very much like to, you know, not get his face damaged.

Noah sighs and kills the engine, looking up at the house before him. He still doesn't understand what would possess his mothers to buy this house in the first place. It's entirely too big for them. And yeah, the market was optimal or whatever and it was shockingly affordable but they don't need five bedrooms and a dining room that can seat twelve. It's a ridiculous waste of space and it never fails to make him feel a little lonely whenever he's there.

He hops out of his jeep and slings his backpack and guitar case over his shoulders. Fumbling for a moment with his keys, he gets to the front door and hears the distinctive sound of paws hurriedly prancing over the hardwood floor. The loud barking alerts him that Perry is eager to welcome him home like every day and for the first time that afternoon, he smiles. Noah pushes the door open slowly and lets out a low, short whistle. As soon as he's stepped through the door, Perry is jumping on him, his head resting on his waist as he looks up at his master.

Grinning, he drops his backpack and blindly leans his guitar case on the wall next to him, holding Perry close to him and petting his head. On his tenth birthday, he asked his moms for a hawk. A falconer had come to his school for a demonstration and Noah was instantly infatuated with it. However, his moms explained patiently that one couldn't just buy a hawk and take it home because they were an endangered species and it took year of study and training under qualified masters before you can even get a permit to keep a hawk or other similar raptors. Therefore, as a ten year old, his chances of getting one were significantly low. He was disappointed to say the least, so his moms took him to a shelter and told him he could take home whichever animal he chose, as long as he stayed far away from the reptiles and arachnids.

And along came Perry. He was lying all alone in his cage when Noah and his moms walked in. The dog had perked up the minute he saw the little boy, standing on his hind legs, jumping and barking to get his attention. Noah was drawn to him and one of the volunteers told them he was part of a litter of five pups abandoned in a condemned house. While all of his brothers and sisters were adopted, he was left behind since he was the runt of the litter and hearing that, Noah made up his mind that this was the dog for him. His short coat was black and shiny with tan legs and snout. His paws were huge and a testament of the size he would be when he reached adulthood, even if back then he looked small and cute. Now he's a little over two feet tall and while his frame is large and stocky, he's the friendliest dog in Lima, nothing like the ferocious, spindly Dob the Millers down the street have.

"What's up, boy? Did you have fun today?" Noah says as he scratches behind Perry's ear. "You didn't chew Mom's wall-hanger again, did you?"

Perry lets out a loud bark and sprints to the kitchen with Noah trailing lazily behind him. He crosses the threshold and sees the huge dog sitting by his bowl practically begging for him to fill it. Once Perry is busy eating, he fixes himself a quick snack and pours himself a glass of milk, then carries his food to the den, sits behind the piano and just stares at the black and whites.

Popping an Oreo in his mouth, he dusts his hand on his jeans and picks at the keys. He sips his milk and hums the tune that started forming in his head on the drive back home, picks at the keys again lolling his head to the side and changing the notes until it starts sounding right. Ten minutes later, he goes back to the foyer to retrieve his backpack and guitar case, taking his staff book and a pencil. Laying it over the piano's shiny surface, he makes a few notations and gives it another try.

See, music is his thing. He's going places with it. He received the Outstanding Achievement in Songwriting award last year and was runner-up for the two years prior to that so it's safe to say he's really, really good. He could go on for days talking about just how damn good he is, but there's really no point. His talent skyrockets so high, sometime it scares him. But not really.

He spends practically every single free moment he has composing. Thank god schoolwork comes easy otherwise he'd have to sacrifice a lot of time to keep his grades up. Just as it is, he easily maintains a 3.7 GPA and manages to devote a great deal of time to glee club, because even if they suck (and it's sad, but they do), he still needs an extracurricular related to music if he's going to get a music scholarship. On top of that, he teaches guitar at the JCC and follows a very rigorous exercise routine to stay in shape. Sometimes he wonders how on Earth he manages to do all that and spend quality time with his family without oh, having a nervous breakdown or something. But he's always been an active kid and he'd probably go crazy if he had to veg out in the couch for hours at a time. That's why he hates being sick so much and gets incredibly frustrated whenever he hears about weekend-long COD marathons on the locker rooms.

(Come to think of it, blurting all that out – including his opinions on said COD marathons – one day in gym class could possibly have contributed to his diminished social stature.)

He abruptly stops playing, whispers _I'm screaming at you but you don't hear me,_ the words gracefully falling from his lips as he reaches for the pencil, messily writing the sentence down in a corner of the staff sheet.

A little while later, he gets tired of fiddling on the piano. Perry is back from the kitchen and now he's sitting on the floor resting his head on the bench next to Noah as he strums his guitar. The tune he was working on sounds much better this way.

The front door opens when he's running over it for the fifth time and his Mom appears in the den's threshold with a smile on her face.

"Noah, honey. You're home early." Aviva Puckerman crosses over to him and kisses the top of his head, petting Perry when he nuzzles her leg with his nose.

"Hi, Mom. How was your day?"

"It was fine, dear," she sighs tiredly. "Business has been a little slow lately but our weight loss treatments and supplements are giving impressive results, plus they're all the rage right now, so we keep ourselves busy."

If you ever met his mothers individually, you'd never guess that they were made for one another. While his Ma was fierce, headstrong and a little rough around the edges, his Mom, Aviva, was a free soul deeply in touch with Nature and the Energy around her and who basked in making the world a better place one person at a time. She has a relatively successful homeopathic practice and she provides natural treatments to those who opted out of traditional medicine. Of medium height (he got his tallness from his father, apparently), she favors gladiator sandals and loose bright colored dresses with bohemian jewelry, and keeps her naturally straight dark hair out of her face with a scarf tied around her head. In the winter months, she occasionally wears boots and huge knitted sweaters she makes herself. She doesn't care that people sometimes stare at her like she's mental and possibly wardrobe-challenged and that's one of the things Noah loves most about her. She does what she does without giving a damn what the rest of the world thinks. He's lucky to get that from her.

"Are you working on something new?" Aviva takes a peek the staff sheet.

"Yes. Would you like to hear it?" Noah playfully waggles his eyebrows, firmly settling the guitar in position on his lap.

"I would love to."

She listens avidly as he strums and plucks at the strings, closing her eyes to fully enjoy the music. It still needs a lot of work, he knows, but the implicit support both his moms are always showing him means the world to Noah.

"It's beautiful, honey," Aviva grins, casting a furtive glance back to the staff sheet. "Are those lyrics?"

He shrugs. "Just a couple of lines."

She reads the words again, her lips coming together in a thin line. "You know, Noah, if there's anything you'd like to talk about, I'm here."

"Everything's fine," he assures her, looking away from her knowing gaze.

"I know you and your mother keep what goes on at school under wraps and that's fine. It's none of my business if you don't want to talk about it. But if you ever do, you can come to me. Or your mother, I promise I wouldn't be upset," she smiles warmly.

Noah sighs. It's no secret that he's not the most popular guy at school. His Ma sees firsthand how his peers treat him on a daily basis and he knows it's hard on her not jumping to his defense. It also brings back memories of her own less-than-stellar high school experience. She wasn't popular either and her physical appearance and the last name Beiste was basically just asking for the bullying. She was an outcast and had a mountain of self-confidence issues by the time she met Aviva in college.

His Mom, however, was the total opposite. She was popular and beautiful and everybody loved her. She can't relate to what he's going through but she's _trying_ to and that's enough for him.

"There's this girl," he starts, standing up and putting his guitar away. "Basically, she hates my guts."

"And how do you feel about her?"

The way he huffs out a breath and clenches his fists is enough of an answer but still he replies, "I don't really like her." As if reading his master's mind, Perry jumps and hugs him again as he leans over the piano. "But it's not like I know her. Not anymore, anyway." He looks up to meet his mom's quizzical gaze and his heartbeat speeds up erratically as he starts to _remember_. He's been fighting the urge to think about it but ever since Rachel joined glee, it's sort of been in the back of his mind, pushing and waiting till he can't ignore it anymore and he _has_ to think about it. "We used to be friends, kind of, years ago. But then it just…stopped."

"And do you think maybe that's why she picks on you?"

"I don't know. She just hates me," he pauses and pets Perry's head. "Like everyone else."

Noah sees the pain flash through his mom's face and he winces internally. The last thing he wants is causing her grief. "The thing is, she joined glee club and somehow got Finn Hudson and all her friends to join her so now they're all part of New Directions and I just know they're going to run the club to the ground and there's nothing I can do about it."

"Finn Hudson?" Aviva frowns. "Isn't that the boy who put up posters of you all over school with the word 'freak' on them?" Noah nods somberly, then watches the look of undisguised anger her features take for a moment before she continues resolutely. "Well, what do you want to do? If you want to quit, it's fine, sweetheart. No one will think any less of you if you do. And your mother and I will support you always, no matter what path you choose. You know that, don't you?"

"I know Mom, but…" he shakes his head. "I can't just walk away and give them the satisfaction. It's _my_ club. I won't step aside and watch from the sidelines as they destroy everything about Glee that makes it special."

"That's my boy." With a proud smile, Aviva stands up and plants a noisy kiss on her son's cheek. "In that case, I suggest you give them a chance. Who knows? You never know when people are going to surprise you."

OOO

Legend:

**Finn: bold.**

_Sam: italic._

Mike: underlined.

_**All: bold + italic + underlined.**_


	8. Chapter 8

**AN: We are in a bit of a quandary. Our love for this fic has never wavered (no matter how much the plot bunnies bite) but we feel that yours, our readers, might have. We don't mean to sound ungrateful but the number of reviews that have been coming in have been dismal. Maybe it's the fact that the Puckleberry action is taking a while; maybe it's because the story is taking a more serious tone. Whatever it is...it's bumming us out. We love those who have taken the time out to let us know what they think about the story so far, but could the silent majority please speak up? We put a lot of ourselves into this story and the possibility that maybe y'all just aren't interested anymore scares us.**

**So anyway, enough of all that feelings crap. Back to the story! Enjoy!**

* * *

_Slam!_

Fucking Noah Puckerman.

_Slam! _

What gave him the right to talk to her like that? Nobody – and she means _nobody _– talked to her like that.

_Slam!_

No, seriously, what the fuck was his problem? He should be thanking her for bringing in some new blood. He should be grateful. The entire club should be fucking grateful.

_Slam!_

Besides, who does he think he is? He's all "I'm Noah Puckerman. I'm the most talented person at this school and you people are nothing more than the dirt on my shoes, blah-blah-blah-blahblah" but really, he's nothing. He's the biggest fucking loser in this place and he called her 'unhappy'? Unhappy, her ass. Who is he to judge her and her life?

Ugh. She can't believe she's wasting so much of her time thinking of things that came out of Noah Puckerman's mouth. She can't believe she's wasting so much time thinking of Noah Puckerman.

_Slam!_

But then again, even she can admit there was some messed up shit going on there with Puckerman and Finn Hudson. Okay, so _maybe_ she didn't really have to drag that particular behemoth in with her. And while Finn can sing (screw whatever Puckerman says), there were loads of other (musically-inclined) fish in the sea and she was enough of a badass to twist anyone's arms into joining. Hell, let's keep it real: she did it particularly to mess with the gleek's head. Only now the perverse pleasure she had knowing that Puckerman would see Frankenteen's lumbering form every rehearsal is gone. She keeps picturing his face as he glared at her and remembering his words and her promise that day outside the principal's office and there is this spasm in her chest and she can't decide if it is anger or hurt or… _guilt_. In the years that she'd slushied, humiliated and insulted him, this is the first time he has spoken back to her. And it makes her wonder just how bad it must be and that thought makes her feel even worse.

Wait a minute. Hold up. What is this Jiminy Cricket bullshit? She is Rachel Fucking Berry. She doesn't apologize to anyone, least of all to people like Noah Puckerman. She glares at the dented locker door still hanging open like it's the one responsible for all her problems and gives it another slam just for good measure.

"There any reason why you feel the need to deface school property or is this just a regular thing for you?"

With a cringe, Rachel whirls around to face a somewhat bemused yet mostly pissed Coach Beiste. Oh. Right. She is supposed to be doing part of her requisite month's detention with Coach, which for today was clearing out abandoned lockers in the male locker room. Of course, that particular detail just completely flew her mind. Instead, she's taking out her feelings on them while thinking about the coach's son and mumbling to herself like a crazy person. Way to be lame, Berry. If she could, she'd throw her own self in the dumpster.

"Sorry, coach. Won't happen again," she says, genuinely contrite this time.

Coach Beiste stares at her appraisingly and she looks like she wants to say something. But she just nods and retreats back to her office, leaving Rachel to her unenviable duties.

Rachel heaves a sigh of relief. To be honest, she was completely surprised with how, well, _nice _Coach Beiste seemed when she first arrived for her detention. If she was serving detention under Coach Sylvester, she's pretty sure they wouldn't find her body for months. So instead of being ordered to go on a suicide mission in some part of Southeast Asia (you can't really tell with Sue Sylvester sometimes), she was told to help organize and clean up the locker rooms in a very calm and civilized manner. But she's still waiting for the other shoe to drop. You can't slushie a person's son without that person wanting some kind of revenge, you know? No one can be that nice.

With her hands on her hips, she surveys the rest of the room and sniffs in disdain. Only to go into a coughing fit because holy fuck, that stuff is rank.

(Huh. So maybe Coach Beiste did have it out for her a little.)

Several minutes pass as she tries not to breathe in through her nose or even let her thoughts stray anywhere near the vicinity of Puckerman loserdom. She picks up towels, organizes the myriad of sports equipment lying around and generally revises her already low opinions of the jocks with their disgusting, disgusting ways. Like, what the hell was that stain and what was it doing on the ceiling? She is debating on whether or not to just bring out her haz mat suit when Coach Beiste pops her head into the room.

"Rachel, I just need to get something from my car. You're not to leave the premises or get yourself into any more trouble, understood?" she says, with a hard look. At Rachel's corresponding nod, Coach departs, leaving her alone.

Rachel sighs. She has another half hour to go before she would be allowed to go home and she's already beat. Seeing the light still on in the coach's office, her curiosity gets the best of her. Come on, it's like someone put a big wrapped box in front of her and told her not to open it (meh, so her impulse control is not very good to begin with, big deal). Ignoring the twinges of her newly-discovered conscience, she creeps towards the door and prepares for some juicy new information to come her way.

It's a big letdown when all she sees when she walks through the door is a normal, humdrum office with a desk, swivel chair and some filing cabinets. There are no big glass display cases full of trophies or walls covered in every kind of cheerleading paraphernalia. There aren't any hidden compartments or spring-loaded traps. It's actually kind of boring. She makes a general sweep of the room and once she figures that there's really nothing there she can use for 'future endeavors', she leaves. Well, she almost does. Instead, her eyes land on the lone picture on the desk. Of Coach Beiste, her wife…and Noah Puckerman.

Fucking Noah Puckerman.

She doesn't realize that she has the picture in her hand until she feels the edge of the frame cutting into her palm as she grips it too hard. It's like he can't leave her alone even for just one second. Fuck. This is all his fault. Things would be so simple if that summer 2 years ago never happened.

_**A little over 2 years ago**_

_Rachel rolls over on her bed until she's facing up at her ceiling fan as she moans into her phone, "It's so lame here without you, Q."_

"_Well, it's not like I'm having the time of my life over here, B."_

"_But I mean, why do your grandparents have to live all the way over in Middletown? I mean, even the name is lame. Why can't they be somewhere like Columbus or something? This summer is seriously gonna blow."_

"_It's not gonna be that bad! You still have San and Brits and all the boys. You're gonna be fine!"_

"_Please. Let's not pretend that Santana and I like each other all that much. Besides, she's been a pain in the ass ever since she started filling out her training bra. And what the hell am I supposed to do with the guys? Play stupid video games and burp? No, thanks." She snorts and pulls her knees to her chest. "_We_ had plans, remember? We're supposed to be solidifying our reps so we enter high school as the hottest freshmen cheerleaders. There was a whole step-by-step thing and you're ruining it."_

"_I'm only gonna be gone for 6 weeks. You'll be fine and I'll be back in time for Cheerio tryouts. That's what matters."_

"_If you say so…"_

"_Don't grumble at me, Rachel Barbra. You'll be fine."_

"_Yeah, well, you better not be replacing me with some slut from Connecticut, Fabray."_

"_As if. Look, I gotta go. Grams is taking me to church."_

"_But didn't you just go yester—you know what, nevermind. I'll talk to you when you get back." _

"_Later, B."_

_Once Quinn hangs up, Rachel takes a minute to stare at her cell mournfully. No matter what Q said, she's still pretty sure that the whole summer was a complete wash. No best friend and nothing to do for a whole month except babysit her brother._

"_RACHEL! We hafta go or we're gonna be late!"_

_Speak of the devil. Closing her eyes and murmuring a plea for God, Buddha or the Tooth Fairy to give her strength, she manages to get herself up and out of bed. "I'm coming! Don't get your panties in a bunch!" With one last glance at the mirror just to make sure she doesn't look like the pathetic loser that she feels, she's out her door to take her brother to Little League._

_15 minutes later, she has delivered her brother to the very capable hands of Mr. Hummel and is now tap-tap-tapping her foot as she watches the crowd of little boys go through their drills. _This_ was going to be the highlight of what was supposed to be the epicest summer ever? She might as well shoot herself now. Taking a good look around the other people hanging around the baseball diamond, she grimaces. Nobody but a handful of parents and some stragglers were hanging around. Oh dear God, is that Mrs. ben-Israel? The woman with the unfortunate resemblance to her son is making a beeline towards her, the only other member of their synagogue unlucky enough to be at the same place at the same time. Fuck if she's going to spend the next couple of hours seated next to that weirdo and all her 'sprayage'. Talking to her was only bearable if you were equipped with windshield wipers. After confirming with Mr. Hummel what time practice let out, she beats a hasty retreat._

_She spends the rest of the afternoon walking along the park with no real destination in mind. In all that time, she can't help but be reminded of the fact that she is once again alone (her mind can be such a traitorous little bitch). For being one of the most popular girls in Lima South Middle School, she sure felt like a social outcast this summer. Quinn is spending her summer with her mom's folks in Connecticut. As for Brittany and Santana…who the fuck knew where they were. She might not like Santana most of the time but honestly, right now, she'd take anything. Finn, Sam, Matt and Mike were all hanging out together and she's had about enough of them since Matt dared Finn to kiss her at Marcy Perkins' party (he got handsy and she ended up punching him in the solar plexus). Plus they were probably being all mature, sitting around and trying to imitate fart noises. Even her dad is working pretty much all hours of the day and she and Danny only see him late at night if they're lucky. She heaves a big sigh then cringes at herself becoming all emo. Pausing underneath a huge tree, she closes her eyes and turns her face to the sky._

"_God, I'm a good person. This summer cannot go down like this. It, like, goes against Your commandments. If you hear me, please give me a sign. Send me something. Anything!" she mutters under her breath._

_She doesn't know what she expected to see when she opened her eyes. One thing is for sure –getting walloped on the head with a falling object wasn't even on the short list._

"_Ouch."_

_She stumbles a little bit against the trunk and slides to the ground, rubbing her hand against her forehead. Whatever hit her, it was heavy and it caught her off-guard. If she didn't have a particularly hard skull, it would've probably knocked her out. She fumbles around for the thing and her brow scrunches up in confusion when instead of a branch or even an apple, she comes across a heavy composition notebook. Before her brain could even come up with reasons as to why a tree like this was growing notebooks (maybe she should really look into getting herself checked for a concussion), she hears a voice from above._

"_Are you alright? I'm really sorry. Honestly, I didn't realize how hard the impact would be but then again coming from a height of where I was plus the attendant velocity, I imagine that must have been a little disconcerting. Not that I regularly drop notebooks from a height, mind you. It was completely accidental on my part and did I mention I'm so, so sor—"_

"_Okay, way too many words at the same time," she grimaces, finally looking upwards to where the voice was coming from._

_Only to end up staring at a pair of startling hazel eyes belonging to a boy dangling from the lowest branch like a chimpanzee. He lets go of the sturdy branch and neatly lands on the grass in front of Rachel, regarding her with a worried look. She scrambles to her feet, refusing the offer of a hand, with an "I'm fine." It is only when she is standing that she gets a good look at her…'attacker'. He looks to be about her age, tall and a little skinny, with short dark hair that curled a little at the tips. Once he sees that she's standing up and isn't, you know, paralyzed or anything, he smiles in relief._

"_Sorry about that. I was climbing the sycamore and the notebook must have slipped from my grasp. Are you sure you don't need to get that looked at?" he asks, suddenly moving closer to get a better look at the goose egg forming on her forehead. She moves back a few steps, only to get crowded against the tree trunk, but he doesn't look like he's noticed, still staring at the bump on her head._

_She clears her throat. "No, really, it's okay." _

_He looks like he doubts her answer but he accepts it. "I'm Noah, by the way," he says, holding out his hand, which she ignores in favor of looking at him a little more closely._

"_You're new here, aren't you?"_

_He pulls his hand back a little uncomfortably. "Yes, my parents and I just moved this weekend. We just came from Indiana but we're from Texas originally."_

"_Uh-huh," she says dismissively. "What were you doing up there anyway?"_

_His face lights up. "It's a beautiful tree, isn't it? I saw it while I was walking around yesterday and it's like I couldn't help but climb it, you know? It's really quite peaceful up there, a great place to think, and the views are just magnificent." He looks at her with those eyes. "You should really see it sometime."_

_She doesn't know any other 14 year-old boys who use the word 'magnificent' (aside from the Hummel kid, she means, and somehow, she knows that this boy didn't bat for that team). Still, no matter how nice (or interesting) this boy was, she still didn't know him._

"_Why should I?" she says, crossing her arms and lapsing back into her normal defense mechanisms._

"_Why not?" he replies with a shrug and a smile._

_Why not indeed? Now that's some logic she can't argue with. Before she could say anything, she hears the distant chatter of children and realizes that Little League would most probably be over already. She looks at him a little warily. "I gotta go now."_

"_Alright," he replies easily. She watches as he picks up his notebook and turns to climb back up the tree. A little insulted that he can't even muster enough energy to care that she's leaving, she faces back around the direction she came from and starts walking away. She is about a few yards from the tree when she hears him shout. _

"_Hey! I didn't get your name!"_

_She doesn't even turn around. "That's because I didn't give it," she retorts pertly, and continues on._

ooo

She's pretty lucky that Coach Beiste makes a hell of a lot of noise coming back in because it gives her just enough time to get herself together and scramble out of the office. By the time Coach rounds the corner into the locker room, Rachel is looking as innocent as you please. Well, as innocent as she can be picking up (ew) errant jock straps. For the rest of detention, she keeps her head down and she doesn't even bother to mask her joy when Coach finally dismisses her. (She's pretty sure there are skidmarks on the floor from her rushing out of there so fast.)

Screw politeness. She just had to get out of there. But somehow, once she gets in her car, she realizes that she really doesn't want to go home either. She feels…restless, for lack of a better term. It's like an itch under her skin, like something is just waiting to get out. And like every other time she's felt this way, she knows just the cure. So she shifts into gear, puts her foot to the pedal…and just drives. And drives. And drives.

She easily slips into autopilot and lets the world pass her by through the windshield. She's so far inside her head she doesn't pay any attention to unimportant things such as time. She doesn't know how long she's been on the road, or if she's still even in Lima. It scares her sometimes, this feeling she has of just wanting to run and never looking back, not for anything.

(It brings up too many bad memories and truths about herself that she really doesn't want to face. She doesn't want to be like_ her_ but fuck, it'd just be so easy…)

It's the sight of familiar Lima landmark that makes her stop the car and get out.

The sycamore tree in Faurot Park has been there probably since the town got started. It's massive and old and, to be perfectly honest, she had always thought it was kind of an eyesore. But it's always been there and it's been witness to a whole lot more than July 4th barbeques and people walking their dogs. And right now, there isn't really any place she needs to be, anywhere she needs to go. So she lies herself back on the hood of her car and stares at the tree outlined against the darkening sky.

OOO

_The next day, she has gymnastics practice and Danny is at Nanna Rose's house so she has no opportunity or excuse to walk around the park and see if the weird boy in the tree is there again. Still, it doesn't stop her from thinking about him (believe her, she's tried). She can't really help it; despite her initial coldness, the fact that he's different from every other boy she knows makes him the most interesting thing to happen in Lima since Mrs. King ran away with the pool boy. When Thursday rolls around and she has to take her brother to the park again, she makes sure to do a little recon at the sycamore tree as soon as Danny is at practice. _

_This time, he's climbing up the tree with a guitar strapped to his back, and she snickers. The boy was nice but definitely a little crazy._

"_You plannin' to serenade the tree this time?"_

_He looks at her over his shoulder before dropping back to the ground. "Hi!" he greets her enthusiastically. "I didn't think I was going to see you again!"_

"_Why? Miss me already?" she asks with a coy smile._

_He clears his throat nervously. "Well, no – I mean, not really. Not that you're not missable or anything, and believe me I know that isn't actually a word, but you're really the only one I know in this town right now, which is not to say that you don't seem like a nice enough person that I wouldn't want to miss in the first place…" He pauses finally, his face turning red. "Any way I can get out of this conversation with my dignity intact?"_

"_Nope, sorry. Lost cause," she deadpans before laughing at the look on his face._

_He smiles (he really has a nice smile). "You want to come up with me this time?"_

_She makes a show of thinking about it. "Well, considering you have something heavier than a notebook, I think I better go up with you anyway. I wouldn't wanna die or anything."_

_In response, he starts climbing up the first set of branches before reaching down to grab her hand. She ignores it and jumps up to grab the branch. With a little somersault in the air, she hoists herself up. At his raised eyebrow, she shrugs. "Gymnast," she explains._

"_Ah." _

_They make their way to the top of the tree, the climb punctuated by laughter, random facts about sycamores (him) and subtle digs about his tree-climbing technique (hers). By the time they get up there, she is sweating not at all gracefully. She started regretting agreeing to this about three branches ago._

_Swiping a hand across her brow, she grouses. "This better be worth it. Honestly, I wanna know what the fuss is all about. It's just a tree…" _

"_It's not just a tree." He seems oddly insistent._

"_What are you—_oh." _Her sentence gets cut off because it is only then that she finally gets a good look. It is a hot, muggy summer day but there is a strong breeze brushing through the top of the tree and a rhythm to the way the branches swayed. The sky is a blazing blue and it's like she could see practically everything. There was the baseball diamond, the soccer field, the gazebos, the lake. She could see Mr. Kendall's ugly green house, the Episcopalian church and if she squinted just enough, she could pretend that the horizon had no end... She never thought the tiny town she had grown up in would be what someone would consider beautiful but from the top of the tree, it definitely was. And yeah, she would go so far as to call it 'magnificent' (if she were the type of person to say 'magnificent'). _

_His voice startles her; she had completely forgotten he was even there. "I like it here. It's like you're alone but you're not really lonely, you know?" He takes a breath. "I could sit here for hours just looking out at the world."_

_She doesn't say anything to this, merely turning back around to gaze at the view. They really don't say much to each other. In fact, they don't say anything at all. Noah ends up picking up his guitar and strumming a few chords of a random song but she is content to merely listen, the song he is playing eventually blending in with the rustling of the leaves. Finally, a change in the colors of the sky and the dispersing crowd by the baseball diamond signals that it's time to leave. She turns to make the long climb down but before she can start, she looks at him and says, quite simply, "By the way, I'm Rachel." She scrambles down so quickly afterwards that she completely misses the smile on his face._

_That is how the unlikely friendship of Noah Puckerman and Rachel Berry starts. Without even planning it, they end up spending most of their summer together. The old sycamore in Faurot Park ends up becoming their spot. Three times a week, after she had dropped off Danny at Little League, they meet at the tree. On the other days, she manages to meet him after practice and they walk around Lima with no destination in mind._

_Most times, he brings along a guitar and he plays – sometimes for her but more often just because he feels like it. He sings too, but no matter how many times he bugs her, she refuses to sing in turn. He teaches her to play the guitar and calls her (to her pleased but embarrassed grin) the best student in the whole wide world when she learns the technique right up. She particularly loves the days when they just walk around the park and Lima, with no destination in mind, sometimes with his dog Perry in tow (she adores that pooch, she really does). Sometimes, she punctuates those walks with little tidbits about the town she grew up in, serving as unlikely historian and tour guide to his newbie self. Of course, she doesn't know any tour guides who point out the post where a 10-year-old Finn Hudson crashed his mom's car after stealing it for a joyride. She shows him her favorite spots around the lake and the school. To his chagrin, she forces him to be her unwilling audience as she practices her balance beam routine. On a railing. Bordering the lake. _

_(She's pretty sure she's never seen a boy sweat so much in terror.)_

_And they talk. Rachel isn't really the talkative type but Noah…Noah is a talker, and somehow, they talk about pretty much everything. She ends up telling him things that she had never told anyone, not even Quinn. She tells him about her screwed up family. She tells him about the dreams she held in secret – how she hated the dead-end town she lived in, how she dreamed of growing up and getting out, and how, after becoming a huge success, she wanted to find her mother and show her exactly what she had missed out on. In return, he tells her how it was having two moms.__ He tells her of his dreams of becoming a world-famous musician, of proving all the people who thought him crazy wrong. But for all that they talk about their lives, they never touch upon school or their friends. It feels like an entirely separate world from the bubble they were living in. All Noah knew was that Rachel had a best friend she called Q, who was away for the summer and who she had known since they were little kids. All Rachel knew was that Noah was always the new kid in school who didn't fit in._

_She liked spending time with him. With Noah, she isn't just 'poor Leon Berry's kid whose own mother abandoned her', or 'Berry the troublemaker', or even 'that brunette girl who always hangs around Quinn Fabray'. She's just Rachel Berry and for once (and maybe even because of him), she likes just being her. _

OOO

Sudden melodic whistling from behind her makes her sigh and reach back for the illuminated phone sitting on the dashboard. The first few bars of Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zero's _Home _rings out loudly in the silence of the park before she abruptly cuts it off.

"Yeah, Dad?"

Hearing her father scold her lightly over the phone while simultaneously telling her to pick up some bread from the grocery, she merely hums in reply. Just as quickly as it started, he has hung up on her and she is left in the deserted park with only the crickets for conversation. She boosts herself off the hood and with one last look at the tree that's been keeping her company, she starts the car and backs out slowly.

A few minutes later, she's in and out of the store with some bread, rice and rotisserie chicken (if her father's previous history as a cook is anything to go by, they'll be needing some back-up to his spinach lasagna). She really should go straight home, she knows that. But somehow, she ends up pointing her car towards another house on another street almost to the other side of town.

She has the route to his house memorized, partly because of that summer and partly because…well, there was always one house on the block that was targeted to be TP'd every Halloween. She knows she looks like a complete stalker now, huddling in her car across the street from the Beiste-Puckerman house like a creeper (or Jacob ben-Israel). The lights are all on, casting a warm glow on the people inside. She can see them through the huge picture window in front, all laughing and happy together. She watches him smile at something his other mom says and an uncomfortable weight settles in her gut as suspicious moisture gathers in the corners of her eyes.

OOO

_She would have been completely happy to have that summer last forever but September was fast approaching. A week before school starts is the beginning of extended Cheerio trials and it's also when Quinn comes back. It is difficult splitting time between her two closest friends (especially when one of them wants to moan and groan about the horrible summer she spent on the East Coast making quilts) and with the schedule she keeps with Cheerio tryouts, she barely has time to talk to Noah. But, as she tells him over text, she was still his friend and she couldn't wait to introduce him to everyone she knows._

_(Teaching him how to text in the first place without it reading like a page from the Wall Street Journal only took forever but at least he isn't texting 5 messages at a time now.)_

_When it dawns on the 3__rd__ of September, Rachel is so excited for school to start, she can barely contain it. She shocks her dad so much with her enthusiasm, he actually asks her if she's sick and does she maybe need to stay home for the day?_

_(The glare he gets for even _thinking _that shuts him up pretty quickly.)_

_She gets to McKinley bright and early and her day starts off with a bang when a senior Cheerio walks up to her and asks her to get to Coach Sylvester's office ASAP. Once there, she finds Quinn, Santana and Brittany outside the door, waiting for her so they could face Coach together. When Coach Sylvester looks at them through squinted eyes and declares them her newest batch of Cheerios, it's all Rachel can do not to bounce around in happiness. At Sylvester's command to "Suit up!" the four of them wiggle into their new uniforms and fix their hair. They had entered the room regular freshmen; they were leaving as Cheerios, the closest thing to deities WMHS had. _

_Quinn, Santana and Brittany immediately want to start roaming the hallways and declaring themselves to the student body; all she can think about is finding Noah and sharing her good news with him. She knows he would be so happy for her. _

_She goes looking for him, eager to finally introduce her old friends to her new one. Quinn tags along as she looks into different hallways, into the auditorium and even outside in the football field. But he's nowhere to be found and she's starting to get a little worried. Maybe he was sick. Maybe he ended up going to that private, all-boys' school anyway and he didn't tell her. Maybe…_

"_Are you sure he even goes here, B?" Quinn asks, a little frustrated. She had been hearing all about this boy Noah from Rachel and to be honest, she's kind of jealous that this guy was taking her place._

"_I'm sure. He wouldn't lie to me," Rachel insists, peering into yet another empty classroom._

"_Well, I think—" At that moment, a commotion from the other end of the hallway catches their attention. They start to move closer when they realize the group of people clumped together hooting and hollering is composed of mostly jocks in their red letterman jackets and Cheerios. By the time they get to the edge of the crowd, they have started laughing and Rachel finds herself smiling along. Until she pushes herself to the very front and sees what exactly it is they are laughing at. _

_Or, rather, who._

_Noah is covered in what seems to be cherry slushie. She gasps when she sees him, calm, stoic and strong despite the humiliation. Three laughing jocks have empty Big Gulps in their hands and she feels so much rage that the edges of her vision are turning red. But instead of laying into them right there and then, she turns to him._

"_Noah," she says gently, inching closer. She reaches out to wipe away some of the flavored slush on his face when his hand shoots out to grab it and his eyes snap to hers._

_But instead of the relief or the recognition she is expecting, he glares at her and venom practically drips from his voice when he says, "Get away from me."_

___She reels back from the shock, his words and the hate in his eyes like a physical punch. "_ "Noah, it's me, Ra—"

"_Just stay the hell away from me," he orders sharply. His gaze is cold and disgusted as he looks at her from the top of her ponytail to the bottom of her Cheerios-approved sneakers. "I can't even look at you."_

_He releases her hand from the tight grip he had it in like he is tossing away a piece of trash before he pushes his way through the crowd. As he leaves, he ends up shoving Quinn back from where she is glued to Rachel's side, all while the crowd laughs. Rachel, however, remains rooted to her spot in front of a puddle of melted red ice._

"_Rach," Quinn whispers as she leads her away. "What just happened? B, are you okay?"_

_Is she okay? She doesn't really know. She doesn't think the ache in her chest is normal at all. Rubbing a hand over her face, she is surprised to find tears that she has to wipe away. __She stares at the wetness on her fingers like it is some sort of alien substance._

_(The last time she cried, she was 8 years old and hearing her mother's voice over the phone enthusiastically gushing about how wonderful her new apartment was. Shelby asked her if she wanted anything from LA and she could only blurt out one thing: "I want you to come home, Mommy". The silence on the other end of the line was enough of an answer. And so were the sparkly Hollywood sunglasses that came in the mail a week later.)_

_That's when she remembers a lesson she thought she had already learned: letting people get close only gave them the power to hurt you._

_The very next day, she tosses her first slushie in his face. Her hands don't shake and she doesn't avoid looking at him in the eye. The last person who hurt her got away with it and she's not gonna make the same mistake twice. Noah Puckerman will forever regret turning his back on her._

OOO

Over the years, she becomes a different version of herself – harder, tougher. She hides the Rachel Berry she was that summer deep, deep inside where no one can find her (or hurt her). And over the years, she's watched the Noah she knew, that shy, ambitious boy smiling softly at her from the top of a tree, turn into this theatrical caricature.

It's hard to believe that once upon a time, the loser she slushied on a regular basis was the one who knew her better than anyone else. Now, she doesn't believe anyone knows her quite as well as he did back then. Hell, most of the time she doesn't know herself.

Maybe if things had been different on that day long ago, maybe if things hadn't gotten all screwed up, maybe if he hadn't thrown away their friendship just like that…fuck, it was a whole lot of maybes. She can't change the past and let's face it, even if she could… chances are, things between her and Puckerman would've ended up badly either way. They were just too different. They were worlds apart and just because they were thrown together in glee club, forced to be around each other didn't mean they could sing a song and instantly become BFFs.

Suddenly, she laughs, quick and brittle. What did it matter? In the end, he is him, she is her and in the end, nothing would really change. He had done the both of them a huge favor, actually. Shaking her head quickly, she guns the engine and heads for home.


	9. Chapter 9

**AN: Wow. Can we just say, the response to the last chapter was just...wow. We hope you guys know that we appreciate each and every one of you - yes, even the ones that didn't have the time to review ;) You make this entire endeavor worth the sleepless nights and the missing muses. **

* * *

His alarm goes off exactly at 5:45 am like any other day, waking Perry up with a start from his spot on the rug next to Noah's bed. Usually, he slaps the snooze button, snuggles under the covers and gets another half an hour of sleep in before he finally gets up and starts his day. This morning, the temptation of his warm bed holds no appeal to him. Having spent the majority of the previous night wide awake, you would think that he'd want nothing more than sleep just a little bit longer, but no, such is not the case.

It is annoying, though. He takes his resting hours seriously and there is no way he can have a fully productive day if he can't reap the benefits of a proper REM cycle. If he doesn't get a good rest the night before, then he'll be in a terribly sour mood for the rest of the day and really, how can he live up to his fullest potential if he didn't look on the day with a positive attitude? Well, it looks like today will be one of those days anyway, if only for the fact that it's not even 6 am and he's already decided this day majorly sucks.

And it's all Rachel Berry's fault.

He had woken up a little after 2 am, startled and agitated, drenched in cold sweat and his heart beating furiously. It wasn't a nightmare _per se_; more like an awful, traumatic memory he can't wipe from his mind no matter how hard he tries. It happens regularly, this dream that comes to him at least once a month for the past two years and sometimes more often. Not to mention the fact that he gets a near-daily reminder of the real thing. The specifics don't matter but the feeling is always the same – cold wetness accompanied by a chorus of mean-spirited laughter and utter humiliation. He's come to the conclusion that very few things are as undignified and as irrevocably damaging to one's pride as an icy cold beverage straight to the face.

(Except, of course, when the girl you once considered your best friend is the one delivering it.)

There was no going back to sleep after that. He tossed, turned, went downstairs to get a glass of warm milk then tossed and turned some more. He read a couple of chapters of The Lord of The Rings (poor choice on his part, since if there's one thing guaranteed to capture his undivided attention – besides Led Zeppelin, Star Wars miscellany and certain porn sites – it's Tolkien's prose) before tossing and turning in his bed again. He tossed, turned, played darts, tossed, turned and then finally gave up and glared at the glowing red numbers of his alarm until it was time to get up.

With a sigh, he pushes the covers off and swings his long legs out of the bed and walks to the window, resting his forehead against the pane. It was cold outside and the icy chill pressed up against him through the glass. There is nothing much to watch except the squirrels; after all, it's early enough that people aren't out and about and, even if they were, his next-door neighbors are positively boring. He heaves a sigh and heads to his closet, pulls on some sweats and a tee shirt and balances his weight jumping on one foot and then the other as he puts thick cotton socks on. He makes quick use of the bathroom, puts in his contacts and five minutes later, he is out of the house for his morning run with Perry panting happily beside him.

OOO

"_Hey! I didn't get your name!"_

"_That's because I didn't give it."_

_She doesn't even turn around, just continues to walk on, away from him. Personally, he considers it quite rude, not acknowledging him or introducing herself when he most certainly did, but that's just the way he was raised. This girl – whoever she is – didn't seem too preoccupied in observing the most basic standards of social conduct._

_She's really pretty though. Heavy brown hair falling on her shoulders, slightly pouty lips, long lashes and big eyes made of a dozen shades of brown that seemed to gaze at him with a mixture of wariness and anticipation. The very first sight he got of her, tilting her head up to the sky as she sent a prayer to God, with her eyes closed and the cutest frown he's ever seen, actually took his breath away for a second. The way the sunlight hit her face through the branches and leaves was, for lack of a better word, magnificent. It was the sort of sight that drove artist to pick up a brush and try to capture every facet. She wasn't the most beautiful girl he'd ever seen, but there was something about her, something he couldn't quite understand that made her the loveliest. It's no wonder that his composition notebook slipped from him, so consumed he was in his contemplation of her._

_But then, because he's Noah Puckerman and it's just his luck, the damned thing whacked her right on the head. As far as introductions went, that one – to put it mildly – really sucked._

_Anyway._

_He tucks his composition book in the back of his cargo shorts and resumes his dexterous climb up the tree. It truly is wonderful up there. It always takes him some time to get used to a new town but being up there helps a great deal in making him feel comfortable in his new surroundings. Call him crazy, but when he's at the very top of the sycamore he feels simultaneously a part of this new town and detached from it enough to quietly watch the town pulse by._

_He doesn't give Brown-Eyed Girl (as he calls her in his head; he always did love Van Morrison) another thought until dinner time that night when his moms ask him if he made any friends while he was out. Their investment behind the words is undisguised at best, but he understands their reasons. His moms want what's best for him and they know he has a hard time making friends and socializing with new people, always being the 'freaky new kid' and all. This time it's different, though. When his Ma took the job at WMHS, she promised him they wouldn't move again for the next four years, regardless of the football team's success, hence ensuring he'd have a normal and stable high school experience. So he promised himself he'd ignore his debilitating shyness and make an extra effort to make friends. He was well-liked at music camp, songwriting workshop and the performing arts circle back at his school in Indiana, which he believes is a result of his extraordinary talent and the confidence he effortlessly draws from it. So if those people liked him, (and to go by the flirtatious smiles a few girls sent his way and their obvious willingness to duck into a dark closet with him, they liked him quite a lot) then that means he's not entirely annoying and unbearable and unable to make friends, right? _

_Lima is going to be it for him. He doesn't care about being popular, he just wants to make some friends and not be a weirdo for the duration of his high school career. He thinks he's really going to make it this time._

_He wouldn't exactly call his encounter with Brown-Eyed Girl this afternoon a complete success, given that he doesn't even know her name and she looked like she'd rather be anywhere than talking to him. But she _did_ talk to him, and she didn't insult him at all or pretend he wasn't even there so, you know, progress._

_So he mumbles to the affirmative in between bites and sees his moms share a look of happiness over their spaghetti and vegan meatballs._

OOO

His legs are burning by the time he brings himself to a stop. Bent over, his hands resting on his knees as he tries to catch his breath, he mentally chastises himself for pushing himself too hard. Perry, however, is almost grinning as he looks as his winded master. When he finally looks around, he frowns once he realizes where his feet took him. The well-kept, homey bungalow looks just like the last time he was there over two years ago, like nothing's changed. A soft glow lights Rachel's window on the east side and he sees fleeting movement behind the closed curtain.

He allows his breathing to calm down as he tilts his head up to follow the shadows on her window. She changed her curtains. Back when they were friends, he visited her house a few times and spent some time in her room. Her walls had been white and her curtains pink with little flowers and butterflies. She'd told him she hated them with a passion and was planning to redecorate her room as soon as her dad had a weekend off. Yellow, she'd said, would be a fantastic color on her walls and she even showed him the sheer white curtains she wanted online. Apparently, sometime between then and now, she'd gotten around to changing them. He couldn't be sure if she'd painted her walls as well, but the Rachel he'd known would've probably done it anyway, even if her dad didn't have time to help her.

_The Rachel he'd known_.

The same Rachel who did a complete 180 and left him alone and confused.

It was really, really hard to reconcile that Rachel, the one who'd been his first real friend, talked to him like they'd known each other forever and shared her deepest fears with him, with the one he met in a McKinley High hallway donned in Cheerios armor. After all this time, he still can't believe she would be so heartless to play with him only to humiliate him later. It doesn't make sense. She's smart and devious, and maybe a little diabolical too, but to spend nearly an entire summer with him pretending to be his friend as part of an elaborate plan to introduce him in the cruelest of ways to his place in WMHS hierarchy was a bit of a stretch, even for her.

But that's exactly what happened. And maybe he's always felt that there was something else, something important he missed, but the ugly truth is it was her who marched up to him in the middle of the hallway and tossed a slushie to his face. No one forced her hand.

He shakes his head as a scowl darkens his features. Cursing himself for dwelling on matters that he was quite done with, Noah runs back home, his feet hitting the pavement even harder, ignoring Perry's loud barking and not seeing a brown-eyed girl watching his retreating form.

OOO

_Sometime between climbing the old sycamore with Rachel before she even gave him her name, and hanging around the same tree nearly every day hoping to see her again, they become friends. He's not really sure how it happened but before he knows it, they're exchanging numbers, she's making fun of his text speak and they see each other every day. Some days, when she has to drop off her little brother at Little League, they meet under the sycamore. Other days, he waits for her in the parking lot in front of her gymnastics class and they end up walking around town._

_Mostly, they talk. Or he talks. About everything._

_He tells her about all the places he's lived, his music and his moms. He tells her about the old man in Nashville, how it felt to hold a guitar for the first time even and how he can't possibly go a day away from his precious instrument. He tells her about picking up Perry from the shelter when no one else wanted him, about being the last one picked in gym class, not because he was a klutz but because he hates dodge ball and spared no one – not even the teacher – his opinion on the matter. _

_("__Why on earth does an institution of education encourage a bunch of eleven-year-olds to peg each other with a veritable rubberized torpedo? Where is the justice in this game? The kid who strikes one of the opposite team gets cheered on, while that poor kid, usually limping off the playing field, gets booed. It makes no sense and does absolutely nothing to help develop and good sense of sportsmanship.")_

_He tells about the time one of his classmates called his moms 'two nasty dykes' and the subsequent black eye he gave him in retaliation, and how his Ma Shannon kicked that kid's dad's ass for using similar language that same afternoon when they'd been summoned by the school principal to fix matters. _

_Rachel listens. At first, he was sure she was just zoning out, but she asked questions and laughed at his poor attempts at jokes. And then slowly but surely, she started telling him things about her and her family (he doesn't think anyone has seen her almost zealous protectiveness over her brother and father, or the broken look that comes over her face whenever her mother is mentioned). She tells him about her dreams, which happened to be quite similar to his own, even if hers were a bit vague in execution, if not in motivation. They both want to be famous, to be more than the sum of their small town lives – Noah, to prove all the people who made fun of him and his relentless dedication to his music wrong, and Rachel, because accomplishing what her mother most wanted and never actually managed to get would be the ultimate revenge against the woman who abandoned her._

_And he likes her, every little bit of her. He's liked other girls before but there's something about Rachel that completely entrances him. She's his first real friend though, so as much as he'd like to explore his feelings, he'd much rather preserve their friendship than ruin things by doing something stupid like, say, kiss her._

_(He ends up holding himself back a lot, especially when he finds himself staring at her lips when she kisses Perry, or smiles, or eats a popsicle, or basically just about every time she uses her mouth for something.)_

_And teaching her to play guitar is just torture. He practically has his arms around her, correctly positioning her fingers on the neck while taking her other hand in his and showing her how to strum and pluck at the strings. Her skin is so soft and she smells like soap and lilies and she smiles at him and it's all he can do _not_ to lean down those extra few inches and just plant one on her. Instead, he clears his throat and stutters something about her being a fabulous student before moving away. Thank god Rachel is completely oblivious to all of it._

_Noah is waiting for her one day at the park, playing fetch with Perry when he notices a group of guys his age not too far away from him tossing a football back and forth. The football ends up on the ground more often than not, be it because they have terrible aim and it ends up either too far away or hitting them squarely on the head, or because when it does end up in the vicinity of their hands, they barely catch the thing and drop it any way._

_He admires their perseverance though. After eight consecutive fumbles, most people would've gotten frustrated and given up. _

_Perry follows the football with his eyes even though he's supposed to go after his own green ball. Noah has trained him well so he doesn't run away and try to catch the football, even though Noah can see he really wants to._

_That is, until one of the guys' throws goes long and towards Perry. Once he sees the ball coming, he runs like the devil despite Noah's warning shout telling him to come back, jumps three feet in the air and catches the ball before it hits the ground. He then happily and proudly trots back to his master with the ball firmly between his teeth._

"_Sorry!" he calls out to the four guys staring at him as he takes the ball from Perry. He grips the ball around the belly and plants his left foot in front of him like his Ma taught him. He aims and shifts his weight evenly to his front foot, rotates his shoulders to accompany the throwing motion of his arms and releases the ball._

_The ball spirals through the air neatly. It would've been the perfect pass if the guy he was aiming at –a freakishly tall, lanky dude with brown hair falling limply on his forehead – actually caught it. _

_They just stare at him for a moment until one of them, a skinny guy with bowl-cut blond hair, snaps out of it and starts towards Noah with the other two, an Asian boy with a spotty face and an African-American guy with a slightly out of control 'fro trailing close behind. The last guy, the one who didn't catch the ball, picks it up from the ground and follows the others with a frown._

"_Hey man!" the guy with the bizarre hairstyle says animatedly when he's two feet away from Noah. "That was awesome! I'm Sam Evans. What's your name?"_

"_Uh-Noah. Noah Puckerman," he says taking the proffered hand and giving it a shake. "Nice to meet you."_

"_Matt Rutherford. How did you do that?"_

"_Mike Chang. Are you new?"_

_All three of them smile broadly and look at him expectantly. It's the first time people his age and gender have any care on what he has to say, unrelated to music._

_He likes it._

"_Actually, yeah. My family and I moved here last month."_

"_Dude, you have to show us how you did that," Sam shakes his head, his blond hair flipping in time with the movement. _

"_Who taught you to throw like that?" Mike asks. "My dad's an accountant and the only sport he's remotely good at is golf," he continues, rolling his eyes._

"_I'm more of a basketball guy," Matt said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. "The guys are trying to convince me to join the football team with them but I just can't get the knack of it, you know?"_

_The fourth guy finally catches up with them, still frowning and holding the football to his side. He makes no move to introduce himself, just glares straight ahead, avoiding eye contact with everyone. _

"_Hi, I'm Noah," he puts his hand out as he speaks, trying to look him in the eye._

"_Finn Hudson," he bites out, leaving Noah with his hand out suspended in mid air, waiting for a response._

_Ah, there it is. This is how people his age generally react to him. They take one look at his glasses and his shirt (he quite likes the one he's wearing today, it's black with the Millennium Falcon and the Star Wars logo on the front) and they immediately write him down as a nerd and treat him like they're better than him simply because they're 'cooler'. _

"_Noah was gonna tells us how he learned to throw like that," Sam says quickly, throwing a hard glance at Finn before nodding in Noah's direction, silently encouraging him to continue._

"_Right," Noah draws his hand back and clears his throat. "My Ma taught me. She's actually the new football coach for the Titans."_

_Sam, Matt and Mike blink rapidly. Finn's scowl darkens._

"_The Panther is your _mom_?"_

"_The Panther is a_ woman_?"_

_Noah gauges their reactions warily. "Yes. Is there a problem with that?"_

"_No!" Sam shakes his head desperately, his hair catching the sun. _

"_Not at all dude, it's just—" Matt says._

"_We assumed Coach Beiste was a man because…" Mike explains fidgeting with the hem of his t-shirt. "Well. No reason, I guess. Just because."_

"_We heard she's good," Matt adds quickly. "She turns loser teams into champions, right?"_

_Noah nods, letting the momentary surge of anger wash through him. They didn't mean to insult his Ma, they were just surprised. He guesses he'd be too; after all, her profession was traditionally dominated by men. "She's the best. The Titans are lucky to have her." He's just really protective of both his moms, all right? _

"_Are you planning on joining the team?" Sam asks. Finn snorts, but everybody (except Noah, who shoots him a confused look) ignores him. "We could use an arm like yours."_

"_I don't think so," Noah shakes his head slightly. Perry, ignored for far too long, gives out a loud bark and jumps to his feet to hug Noah. Petting him on the head, "Team sports aren't really my thing."_

_A few yards away, he sees Rachel walking in the direction of their (yes, he thinks of it as _theirs_, okay?) tree. She hasn't seen him but he'd better catch up with her soon. She wants to show him her balance beam routine today and he's particularly excited to see her stretching and jumping on, well, anything really._

"_Really, man? C'mon!" Sam punches him lightly on the shoulder. "It'll be fun!" Mike and Matt voice their agreement._

_Noah smiles "I'll think about it. Right now, I gotta go though. See you guys around."_

_And with that, he sprints after Rachel with Perry running beside him, eventually slowing and motioning for Perry to be quiet when they get closer. He creeps up behind her and pokes her hard right between her shoulder blades, which he knows she absolutely hates._

"_Noah!" she screams bloody murder and launches herself at him, playfully pulling his hair and trying to choke him._

_Far in the distance, Finn clenches his fists, drops the ball and glares._

OOO

When they get to the tree, Perry leaves his side and snoops around for a bit. Noah remembers the time he marked this particular tree as his territory, much to Noah's displeasure. He did it right in front of Rachel too, leaving his master embarrassed as he used the beautiful old tree as his personal potty.

Rachel laughed and told him to relax. She actually congratulated Perry for singling out their tree for them.

He runs a hand through his short hair. That had been a week before school started and they had actually been talking about it. He was the opposite of enthused about being the new guy at a new school _again_, but Rachel assured him repeatedly that everything would be okay and that she couldn't wait to introduce him to her friends.

He could clearly see the memory in his head like it was yesterday. The sun was setting on the horizon and the orangey light made her skin shine and her eyes warmer. She'd just gotten out of tryouts and she was visibly tired, but insisted they meet at their sycamore because it had been a few days since they'd last hung out together, due to the intense training she was being subjected to by Coach Sylvester.

"_They're gonna see how awesome you are, just like I do. I promise."_

And he believed her. Why wouldn't he? She had never lied to him, not in the entire time they had known each other, and Rachel wasn't one to sugarcoat things. If she thought they were going to think he was a loser and a weirdo, she would've told him straight away. Or at least that's what he thought at the time.

He hasn't come back here ever since. This tree is the reason he met Rachel in the first place. If they hadn't met, she wouldn't have become his friend that summer two years ago. She wouldn't have earned his trust, only to literally throw it back in his face. He wouldn't have developed feelings for her.

And it wouldn't be so hard to hate her.

He inhales deeply, that feeling in the bottom of his stomach making its way up and if he doesn't do _something,_ he's going to throw up. Or scream. Possibly both.

Setting his jaw, he jabs his foot on a dent on the trunk and grips one of the lower branches, pulling himself up.

OOO

_It's the first day of his freshman year and for the first time in a long time, Noah is actually looking forward to it. He has a smile on his face as he opens his locker and breathes in all that stale air. Normally, he wouldn't have this kind of a reaction to a new school but, unlike all the other times, this time…he had Rachel. Still, he didn't want to give anyone ammo to use against him so in an effort to help the process of fitting in, he forgoes his first choice of shirt (the blue one with the owls) and wears a plain gray one instead. New dawn, new day, new life after all. Still, he takes a surreptitious look around just to be sure that no one is looking at him weird for grinning at his locker._

_He's getting everything ready for his first class while simultaneously checking his phone to see if Rachel texted him. They're supposed to meet before homeroom and while he really wants to see her, she told him she would probably be a little late because the final list of freshman Cheerios would be out today and she was hoping she'd made the cut, so she promised she'd find him. He doesn't want to bother her if she's still busy and really, the school isn't so big that he won't see her around sooner or later. Surely they have some classes together and he'll see her in the hallways. He can survive a couple of hours alone and maybe even make a few friends. Sam, Matt and Mike seemed really nice and he's only seen them in passing this past month but he figures they're in good enough terms to strike a conversation—_

_He hears someone clearing his throat behind him. He turns around and sure enough, there's a familiar face standing right there._

"_Hey Finn," Noah greets in a friendly manner. The one time they met in the park, he got the impression Finn didn't like him all that much. But maybe he was just having a bad day. He notices he's wearing a letterman jacket with the school colors now – evidently his Ma deemed him fit to join the team. "Cool jacket. What position do you play?"_

_The sneer in Finn's face is instantaneous. "Why do you care, loser?"_

_He's momentarily taken back but it's long enough that a small crowd of jocks and cheerleaders closes in around them. It's like a veritable wall of red, the letters WMHS proudly emblazoned on their chests, and expressions of malevolent glee on their faces. He's never understood what books meant before when they described 'a sense of foreboding' but he's pretty sure he gets it now. And before he knows it, three hands holding Big Gulps flick toward him and he is covered in slushie._

_It's hard to focus on anything other than the brain freeze and the sticky mess that's become of him, but the mean-spirited laughter is deafening, more so that the ringing in his ears. _

_However, he can make out three words over the myriad of voices laughing and calling him names._

"_Welcome to McKinley," says Finn, accompanied with a deceptively sweet smile._

_He's been made feel unwelcome before. On Father's Day, his classmates would tell him his father was ashamed of him because he was freak and that's why he didn't have one. He was always picked last in gym class. No one ever wanted to do group projects with him, even though he was one of the smartest kids in his class. He wasn't usually invited to birthday parties. The only kids who went to his Bar Mitzvah were forced to by their parents. He's generally liked at band camp, but six weeks every summer don't do a whole lot for his self esteem during the rest of the year._

_But he's never, ever been humiliated like this. _

_And it feels horrible._

_Shivering, his voice so low he's not sure Finn can actually hear him, he asks "What did I ever do to you?" _

_He narrows his eyes and sneers, "Why don't you ask Rachel?"_

"_What the fuck does she have to do with this?" _

"_Come on, you don't honestly think one of the hottest freshman girls would ever hang out with a loser like you? You're a charity case, a joke."_

"_Shut the fuck up," he keeps his voice level, his chin up. He wasn't going to give them the satisfaction of seeing him explode._

"_You don't believe me? You might want to take a good look at your 'friend' the next time you see her." Finn laughs, a sickening sound that makes Noah want to punch him even more. "God, you should have heard her talk about your little weirdo ass. 'I'm gonna be a rock star', 'I'm getting out of this town', 'I'm sooo talented'," he mocks in a high falsetto. _

_At the obvious shock on Noah's face, his grin grows even wider. "Aww, you didn't actually think those 'guitar lessons' meant something, did you? Here's a hint – girls like Rachel Berry don't become friends with freaks like you." _

_They are interrupted by a single word. "Noah."_

_He has never been so happy to hear someone's voice. Until he turns around and all he can see is red._

_Red from the slushie encrusting his glasses. Red from the attire of the crowd still pointing and laughing. Red from the uniform he sees right in from of him, her loyalty emblazoned on her chest for all to see. _

_She's one of them._

_He can see her hand reaching out for him but his hand shoots out without a thought. He doesn't want her touching him, doesn't want to hear anything she has to say._

"_Get away from me," he growls, anger and betrayal bleeding into his tone._

_She blinks and reels back. She says something, his name probably, but he can't hear anything other than the roaring in his ears and the unrelenting laughter around him._

_"Just stay the hell away from me," he orders sharply. Against his better judgment, he gives her another look, from the top of her ponytail to the bottom of her sneakers, and he's nothing but disgusted by everything she represents. "I can't even look at you."_

_He releases her hand before he pushes his way through the crowd, shoving whoever is in his way back, all while the crowd laughs. He spends the first few hours of the first day practically drowning himself in a hot shower in the locker room, hoping it'll wash away the ache in his heart as easily as it cleaned off the slushie on his skin._

_(And if he takes out the rest of his anger by whaling on a few second-string players that wanted in on the fun later that afternoon, no one could really blame him.)_

OOO

_It has taken him the entire day (and several sleepless hours staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars on his ceiling) to calm down enough to think things through rationally. Why would Rachel do something like that to him? It makes no sense. He _knows_ Rachel. She is his best friend. The entire time he has known her, she has never lied to him, never been anything other than herself. She may put on a show of bravado for the rest of the world, but he spent the entire summer peeling off her layers until he reached the confused, abandoned, hurt little girl at her core. Insecure enough to make sure no one really sees her, but desperate for someone to notice her and care about her. There is no way that person would devise an elaborate plot with Finn Hudson and the other jocks to hurt him where she knows it would hurt the most._

_He doesn't know what the hell Finn's game is but he is positive that Rachel has nothing to do with it. How the other guy found out about his private conversations with Rachel, he doesn't know, nor does he care anymore. All he wants is his friend back._

_He resolves to make things right with her as soon as possible. The moment he arrives in school the next day, he tries to find her, apologize for pushing her away the day before and ask that they start over. He'll even throw in an offer to see Halloween II, even if Michael Myers scares the bejeesus out of him, just because he knows she wants to see it. He just wants to talk to her._

_He sees her coming in his direction from the other end of the hallway and his relief is so great that he doesn't notice the blank mask she has on her face from the moment she saw him. He does see her eyes and how angry she is. But once he explains, he's sure she'll understand. He'll tell her everything, about what Finn told him, and all will be well again. And maybe they'd find the time to drop a little revenge on the tall, lanky football player while they're at it._

_When they're within arm's distance, he sees her taking a big breath like she's bracing herself. The mask of blankness slips for a fraction of a second before she hardens her features once more. Noah opens his mouth to apologize but before he could say a word, his face is covered in flavored ice._

_The cold shock makes his breath stutter and he wipes his glasses, just now seeing the Big Gulp on her hand. But it is the chilly disdain in her voice that makes him completely stop in his tracks._

"_You'd better stay the fuck away from me, Puke-rman."_

_If his heart had cracked the day before, it was certainly broken now. And as he watches her walk away from him, the first of many times he would do so, he thinks that maybe Finn was right after all._

OOO

A bitter laugh forces itself out of his chest as he remembers. God, they must have had a good laugh at his expense, her and her merry band of idiots. And he can't help but feel so stupid. For falling for her tricks, for thinking that she was any different, for actually _caring_.

He doesn't stay long up in the sycamore. Once he reaches the top, he realizes there's nothing left for him there. He's not the same guy who climbed the tree for the first time and deemed the view magnificent simply because he was full of hopes and expectations for his new town. Now all he sees are dull houses on dull streets. Dull people.

He's changed so much in the last couple of years. He knows what he wants from life but he doesn't fool himself anymore. When he first arrived in Lima, he told himself he'd make friends and be happy. He told himself that he'd fit in because he'd try his best and they'd recognize he was a good guy, worthy of being friends with.

That first week of freshman year erased all traces of that hopeful boy. Eventually, he knew enough not to fight back anymore because it just made things worse. And eventually, his tormentors toned down the more physical aspects of the bullying after his Ma started noticing. But there was still a huge target on his back and the one person who he thought would stand by him was the one who seemed to take the greatest pleasure in making him miserable. For the longest time, he couldn't believe that this was the girl he had spent that amazing summer with. But as time passed and she became the head cheerleader from hell, with a sneer on her face and minions to match, he let go of the image he had of her in his head – of the girl with the sunlit hair and the soft smile on her face.

Now he wakes up every morning and he knows how it'll play out that day. He'll be called names, shoved into lockers, made fun of. He'll hold his head high as he walks in the halls because he'll be damned if he'll ever let them see him flinch. He'll bide his time until it's time to go home where he can hide behind his music and he'll tell himself this was all just fuel for the songs he's going to be winning Grammys for in the future, that it is his career that matters. He'll unsuccessfully try to hate the girl who hurt him the most. He'll tell himself one day they'll all be sorry.

But mostly, he'll just be alone.

* * *

**Not to sound like a broken record but please, please review?**


	10. THIS IS NOT AN UPDATE

**Sorry for the fake out but we would like to share some good news with you.**

**First of all, in case you haven't heard yet, there's this little thing called the Puckleberry Fanfiction Awards going on over at Livejournal and, surprise, surprise – "the planets bend between us" has been nominated for Best WIP. We're so very honored just to be nominated because our fellow nominees knock our socks off. Links to the voting are over at prfanficawards (dot) livejournal (dot) com. The polls are only open until the 26****th**** so cast your votes soon. We would really love your support :)**

**And for those who are just about to stab us for dragging out the story and making you wait so long for an update, relax. The next chapter is already in the final editing stages and will be ready for public consumption by next week. Again, we want to thank all of our readers. This wouldn't be the same without you guys. **


	11. Chapter 10

**AN: Thanks for the response to last chapter, you guys are amazing! However, we'd like to address a certain issue here. **

**We have received some reviews saying that things are going a little slow, story-wise. We understand your concerns but the pace of the past few chapters were needed to really establish Noah and Rachel's lives and backstories in this AU. The plot will start moving faster this point on. That being said, we won't be hurrying the story along or getting Puckleberry together quickly just to placate some people. There's a _plan _and by Jove, there will be no deviating from it!**

**Now, enough of that. On to the story!**

* * *

Mondays, Rachel decides, should never have been invented.

She knows she's not alone in that particular assessment. Fuck, if you gave her a dollar for every idiot that couldn't wait for Monday to come, she'd have…well, she'd have a dollar. Maybe two. Hell, just give her a shotgun and she'll shoot the Monday-loving bastards instead and go back to sleep. Excuse her for wanting some time to bury herself under the covers and pretend the week before (and all the fuckery that went with it) hadn't happened.

Normally, she wouldn't have a problem with the week starting. Monday just meant that another awesome weekend of sleeping in and the occasional party had gone by, and it was time to get back to the business of ruling the school and thinking up of new ways to annoy the ever-loving fuck out of Puckerman. There was a system and it worked. Now it was all shot to hell because her brain decided to stage a mutiny and make her do things she never wanted to – like remember shit that should've stayed forgotten, or grow a fucking conscience.

As she trudges (Her! _Trudging!_) into school that day, she practically growls at whomever is unfortunate enough to get in her way. One of the hockey players may have actually pissed himself. (Whatever. He really shouldn't be walking in front of her when she's in this kind of a mood.) Once she gets to her locker, she shoots her meanest glare at the group of chattering freshmen congregating beside it. Of course, the gesture is completely futile since no one can really see her eyes behind the dark tint of the Ray Bans she is wearing, worn not because of a lingering hangover. Not because she'd been pulling all-nighters partying all weekend. Oh no. These little beauties are all because of _him_.

(She hates that this new conscience of hers that's been bothering her lately has decided to do said bothering mostly late at night. It's really cutting into her social life.)

Slamming her door open (it's a gift she has) has the wonderful effect of scattering the whiny little kindergartners around her. Cautiously, she looks around to see if she has an audience before she finally takes off the sunglasses. She stares at herself in her vanity mirror. If she squints just enough, she can see the faint smudges of purple under her eyes, evidence of the insomnia she had been suffering since Friday.

The day after Puckerman pitched his little bitch fit had found her lying wide awake for most of the night. She tossed and turned for hours, still replaying the events of the past day (and the past few years). Hours she should have spent dreaming about her supermegaawesome life A.L. (After Lima), she spent trying to fall asleep by staring at the ceiling and trying to calculate the approximate area of each ceiling tile. By the fifth go-around, she gave up and retreated to the kitchen because if she was going to lose sleep, she might as well do it by being productive. This just meant both male Berries would get a hearty, full and possibly artery-clogging breakfast that day. She was lazily pulling on an old NYU sweatshirt over her tank top and sleep shorts when she saw him.

For who else but Noah Puckerman would be out at the crack of dawn on a weekend? Oh no, he just couldn't be a normal teenager and sleep in until noon on a Saturday. He was way too special for that. She rolled her eyes covertly but still moved closer to the window to see what he was doing. A twitch to the curtain revealed him just standing on the sidewalk in front of her house, staring up at it. She hoped he wouldn't notice her staring right back and really, she should stop peeking through the curtains at him like some sort of creeper. But she couldn't seem to move away from the glass. The early morning sun fell upon his face and without his glasses, his face open and calm, he seemed like an entirely different person. Not the boy she once (thought she) knew; not the guy that was the target of her many schemes. Just someone else. Someone she didn't know at all.

Someone who was apparently stalking her house like a total psycho. What the hell was he doing there?

He looked like he was searching for something. But whatever it was, it didn't seem like he found it at all because as suddenly as he had arrived, he frowned just as quickly and shook his head, breaking the spell. Rachel spent another minute watching him tug on Perry's leash before sprinting far away. It took another minute before she could finally bring herself to go downstairs and get to the business of cooking breakfast.

That morning set the tone for the entire weekend. She spent the first half of the weekend thinking about Noah Puckerman and the other half denying that she was thinking of Noah Puckerman. And now, as she stands in front her locker, she can't believe that she's _still_ thinking of Noah Puckerman.

This seriously would not do. Her fingers tighten their hold on her locker door and she turns her glare on her reflection. All this thinking and feeling shit had to stop now. Affecting a chilly gaze, she smoothes down her always perfectly coiffed hair and pats more concealer on the circles under her eyes. She decides then and there that this little alternate universe she had wandered into these past few days, a universe where she actually _cared, _was merely a figment of her imagination (really, she blames toxic boy fumes and bad lasagna). He was just a boy whom she had absolutely no feelings, positive or otherwise, towards. They would work together for glee, sure but, really, from this moment on, Puckerman would cease being an entity to her. He did not matter. He was nothing. He. Did. Not. Exist.

Of course, that would work more if he wasn't actually standing beside her. Like, right now.

"Can I talk to you?"

She contemplates banging her head on the locker but honestly, the boy has already stolen more than her sleep and her time. She doesn't need to put 'cracked skull' on top of that either. Taking a deep breath, she turns to face him. "What is it now, Puckerman?" she asks, coolly neutral even with the..._everything _warring inside her chest.

His hazel eyes are looking at her like he knows exactly what she's thinking (she prays to God that he doesn't). He opens his mouth to speak, snaps it shut again before clearing his throat hesitantly as she rolls her eyes. Whatever he felt like he had to say, she'd really appreciate it if he could just go on with it so she could go back to happily living a Puckerman-free life. Finally, after much hemming and hawing, he blurts it out.

"I'm sorry."

She blinks at him in shock and apparently that completely bemused expression on her face gives him the motivation to continue. "I'm sorry for calling you a bitch. That was completely unprofessional and uncalled for. I realize that I may have let my personal issues color my judgment and while I am not entirely happy with the direction towards which our interactions have taken, it did not warrant my calling you names."

All the time he is talking, she just stares as his lips form the words. He's apologizing? To her? She is so confused, she misses about half of what he is saying but she hears enough to activate that pain in her ass she calls a conscience. But the twinge she gets when she hears his apology to her, the one person who has done more to make his high school life miserable, is practically drowned out by the rest of her that's still waiting for an apology for something that happened 2 years ago. That part just wants to yell at him something along the lines of _Why aren't you apologizing for that? _She thinks the fact that he's a two-faced abandoner is a bigger deal than him calling her a bitch_._

And frankly, it pisses her off.

He eventually exhausts his inexhaustible vocabulary with his apology and is just staring at her, waiting. For what, she doesn't know. Her insides are churning and she can't believe she's standing there with so many feelings she can't even begin to understand. Fuck, just looking at him right now makes her so irritated, she wants to scream. He is still waiting, still staring, and she honestly doesn't know what he wants from her right now. Does he want her to make nice? Does he want her to apologize, too? Make amends for the mountain of insults and pranks accumulated for the last two years? Before she can say whatever it is on the tip of her tongue (and she isn't sure what that might be), the bell for first period rings. Puckerman's head snaps up when he hears it and she can tell by the tightening in his jaw and the bob of his Adam's apple that he's itching to get away from the intense girl with the crazy eyes standing in front of him.

Just like the last time.

And call her a coward (except no, _don't_) but she can't meet his eyes. She just can't. Any other day and she would've stared up at him in that hard and cold way she's perfected until he cowered and ran away. Any other day, she'd have a witty retort on the tip of her tongue, complete with a series of insults especially designed to undermine whatever confidence he had left after daring to come up to talk to her. But he'd always found a way to read her like no one else could and as much as she's spent the last couple of years building up her walls and perfecting the façade of cold, hard bitch, she fears he might, today, see past it. She's not about to give him the satisfaction of looking into her eyes and guess he is what she's been losing sleep over.

Finally, she mumbles out a "Whatever" through gritted teeth before turning around quickly to get to her class, her Cheerio skirt fanning out behind her. She doesn't look back, doesn't care if he's insulted that that's all she said. Let's see how he feels when someone else is the one walking away.

* * *

Rachel arrives at the choir room a little later than usual (and that's saying something), barely beating out Mr. Schue as he walks in with a stack of folders. The usual suspects are all there – Porcelain, Aretha Wannabe, and Asian are all lined up in the middle row. She rolls her eyes when she sees Frankenteen all the way at the back throwing the occasional spitball at Puckerman down in front. (Spitballs? What is he – _12_?) Course, with his aim, he's getting most of it in Porcelain's hair. Other Asian, not surprisingly, is sitting with Sam right behind the goth chick and doing his utmost best at staring his eyes off. Again, she rolls her eyes. So not ninja at all. Wheels is looking askance at Santana, who has flung the DayGlo-colored yarn she had been holding for a knitting Brittany over his lap, while she herself files her nails. Quinn is seated near the center and she smiles as she sees her best friend, cheerfully indicating the vacant seat right next to her. And right smack dab next to Puckerman.

Joy.

She fights the urge to stomp to her seat like a two-year-old and instead takes her seat like an adult. Okay, so maybe she stomped a little bit. And kicked his chair when she passed. Whatever. Arms crossed, she watches Schue confer with Tinkles for a minute as she tries to settle into the plastic seat. Damn thing is uncomfortable as hell. Before long, the Jheri-curled wonder is standing in front of them with another one of his big grins.

"Okay, now that our team is finally complete, we can focus on the important stuff – namely, Invitationals." He moves to the ever-present whiteboard and writes the word down in big letters before facing the group again. Seriously – the grin is freaking her out now. "And pretty soon, it'll be Sectionals where we will be, and I'm not just saying this, kicking some serious bee-hind." He punctuates his 'uplifting' speech with some pseudo-street swagger, Lima Heights style, and really, all it's doing is making him look like an ass.

The rest of the room's reaction is decidedly less…manic. She does hear some tittering coming from the gleeks behind her and from the corner of her eye, she sees Puckerman scribbling something in that stupid composition book he always carried around.

Schue claps his hands to get everyone's attention again. "Now, I know what you're all thinking—"

"That you're actually contractually obligated to wear sweater vests every damned day of your life?" Santana interrupts.

The look on his face as he looks down at the yellow-brown, tweedy thing he has on, is priceless. Rachel has never been so happy to be friends with La Lopez until that moment and judging by the snickers of the other kids, they're pretty grateful, too. "Nooo," Schue finally draws out. "What I wanted to say is…you know what, forget it. Let's just start picking songs for Invitationals. Noah, you have the floor."

At this, Puckerman shoots up from his seat and makes his way to the front. He clears his throat with some importance as he looks at each one of them in turn. Rachel, on the other hand, avoids his eyes and focuses on the owls painted on his shirt instead.

Scratch that – those be some creepy owls and they're staring right back at her.

Suppressing a full-body shudder, she focuses on the boy now distributing photocopied sheets among the club. "Invitationals may not be the competitive arena that Sectionals and so forth are, but it is still the first step in our journey towards Nationals," he says, his glasses slightly crooked on his nose. "We can't afford to start the year off on the wrong foot. Which is why I have taken the liberty of making a list of songs that I deemed...suitable. They are arranged by degree of difficulty and/or performance and I have also highlighted the top three songs that I feel would showcase our glee club talent to the fullest." He ends his little speech with a self-contented look on his face.

Rachel receives her copy with no mean amount of dread. Looking around her, she sees various reactions to the list, ranging from curiosity to approval to just plain I-don't-give-a-flying-fuck. Mr. Schue interrupts her musings when he taps the paper in front of him with his pen. "These are good choices, Noah. But I think you've missed a very important part of our setlist. I mean," he addresses the other kids again. "I _did_ find a Journey song we haven't done yet. How awesome is that?"

You could hear crickets chirp with the amount of not caring in the room. Even Tinkles looked like he wanted to file Santana's nails for her instead of sitting through what would be another one of Schue's weird hair gel-fueled trips. We get it, you've got a hard-on for Journey; now let's move the fuck on.

Puckerman clears his throat again and pasted a smile on his face. "That's great, Mr. Schue, but while we can all agree that Journey is still one influential and popular band," he says diplomatically. "We're thinking we'd go with something different this time around. Right, guys?" There is a chorus of assent from everyone else, including the jazz band. "So anyone...thoughts? I like all the songs here but I personally believe that the first three are particularly inspired."

That's when she finally takes a look at this so-called list. And she does a double take. Classic songs, mostly rock, all guitar-driven...what the hell? "Um, what the hell?" she protests, waving the paper in the air. _"Free Bird_? Pink Floyd's _Lost for Words_? _D'yer_…okay, I can get behind _D'yer Maker_ but still…are you actually kidding me with this?"

Puckerman got all stiff and tense when she started talking. "I don't know what you mean by that."

"Am I the only one who sees it? None of these songs would 'showcase our glee club talent to the fullest'!" she says, frustrated. "The only thing being showcased here is _you_. And while I gotta give props to all the bitchin' bands here, I'm just wondering if your big plans for Invitationals involve us _losing_!"

"Look," he retorts, his tone patronizing. "I personally arranged the songs to accommodate everyone's voice and they are on the setlist for a reason. Performance impact is a big deal for the judges."

"Performance impact?" she snorts. "Sure, if your idea of making an impact is a 4-minute guitar solo in the middle of a show choir competition—"

"You didn't even take a look at the arrangements," he cuts in, his eyes narrow, a sure sign that he's gradually starting to lose his cool. "You're criticizing my work without knowing the first thing about it."

"—and this," she growls, talking over him like he didn't just interrupt her and points at the paper in her hand, "isn't a setlist. It's a list of _suggestions_. I think we could do with more suggestions. Right, Mr. Schue?" She directs her question to the glee club director sitting in Puckerman's vacated seat, who is, thankfully, looking receptive.

And by the interested muttering she can hear behind her, she thinks the others are pretty receptive too. "I see where you're getting at, Rachel. We could do with some new ideas," Schue says. "Why don't we hear from the rest of the class? Brittany?"

Brittany lowers her raised hand and says, matter-of-factly, "I think we should do 'Circle of Life'."

There is a long beat of silence as everyone processes the fact that the girl has managed to make a good, totally unBrittany and completely within this plane of existence, suggestion. "That's actually a wonderful idea, Brittany. Maybe with—"

"Yeah, because I was totally Simba in a past life." She pauses. "I think you're Rafiki, Mr. Schue."

Aaaand she's back. Schue blinks and tries to figure out what to do with that. "Okay then. Maybe we could have some more sugges—"

Rachel interrupts him. "I also think we should work a little more on the choreography. All the swaying and arm gestures is, you know, _okay_," she scrunches her nose at this, "but for competitions, we need to wow them. And no offense but we'll be taking point on this one," she states, indicating herself and the Unholy Trinity.

Looking at Schue's slightly crestfallen face, she reaches out to pat his hand consolingly. "Oh, you're not bad, Mr. Schue," she says sweetly. "You did rather well for yourself, considering you have no training. Trust me," she placates him, with a smile, "the girls and I actually know what we're doing."

"Oh, and the costumes," Rachel directs her gaze to Porcelain and Aretha. "Your whole concept sucks. If we go on stage wearing jeans and tee shirts, they're going to throw fruit at us. Like maybe even pineapples. And those sneakers have got to go, too. Unless Converse is paying us to wear them, they've got no business being part of our costume."

The sound of hands suddenly slamming forcefully against the piano makes all of them jump in their seats. His hands still resting against the top of the instrument he just assaulted, Puckerman ignores the glare that Tinkles is directing at him and stares straight at her. He's looking pretty pissed and a part of her is glad that she's managed to push all his damn buttons. "That's it," he glowers. "I've had enough of you interfering with the running of this club. First you bring in new members with certainly questionable methods of persuasion; now you actually have the gall to question not only my authority as president of the glee club, but also Mr. Schuester's talents as a choreographer and Kurt and Mercedes's wardrobe choices. You can't just march in here like you're some sort of expert. You don't know shit about glee and you never will."

He is pushing all of her buttons, just as much as she is pushing his, and just like that, all her previous, stocked up resentment and irritation is bubbling over faster than Danny's volcano science project (it should have erupted but he replaced some of the baking soda with cornstarch and well...).

"As far as _I_ can tell, you don't know shit about winning." At that statement, she hears a muttered 'Buuurn' from the peanut gallery and it only eggs her on. She stands up, hands on her hips, and stares angrily back at him in turn. "And if you keep on doing the same old crap this club has been doing since the 80s, you never will. Hell, the last time you guys even won anything other than the award for lamest group of people ever, Mr. Schue's hair was considered cool and Tinkles over there still knew how to smile."

The look on Puckerman's face would be funny if it wasn't just a little bit scary. His eyebrows are drawn together in a dark frown and the vein in his forehead is looking suspiciously close to bursting. "His name," he starts off softly before exploding, "is _**BRAD!**_"

("There was a time that hairdo was cool? On what planet?"

"But I liked the name Tinkles. I wanted to name my first baby Tinkles."

"I don't know whether to go for a tranquilizer gun or some popcorn."

"Um, Mr. Schue? Could I get a pass to go to the bathroom?"

"Dude, hold it in! You're gonna miss the whole show.")

The two combatants locked in a stare-off barely notice the murmurs of their enraptured audience. All either can see is each other. Rachel doesn't care if she looks like a complete psycho right now. She is ready to do battle with whatever it takes because hell if she was gonna let Puckerman win. Fuck. That. Shit.

"Look," he grits out, "I know what the judges are looking for. I know music. You and your minions from hell might be able to push everyone around when you're outside this room but in here, we do things a certain way."

"And I'm guessing that's _your_ way?" she retorts with a mocking uplift of an eyebrow.

He clenches his fists. "You don't get to question me. This is my club."

"The last I heard, this was _our_ club. And correct me if I'm wrong, which I'm not, but I'm the female lead. I have authority, too."

"The only reason you're even in this club is so you won't get expelled! Besides, I was elected president. I outrank you, lead or no lead."

"Then I guess it's time we call for another election. You don't really think you're going to beat me, do you?"

She tilts her head to look him in the eye and that is when she notices how close the two of them had gotten since the start of the argument. There's but an inch of space between their chests and she can clearly smell the scent of his aftershave. She shivers involuntarily. As it is, he practically looms over her but she is not backing down at all. "Now unless you want this to get ugly, I suggest you back off."

"Make me," he challenges, his voice low and husky.

Finally, Mr. Schue steps in before the bloodshed started. As it is, he looks like he wants to banish the two of them to separate corners and put them in a time out. "Everyone, settle down. Noah, Rachel—"

Flipping her hand up in the international gesture for 'Shut your face', Rachel interrupts Schue for the nth time that afternoon. "Mr. Schue," she says calmly while continuing to stare Puckerman in the eye. "We will be presenting a song on Wednesday. I hope you'll consider my suggestions for Invitationals before making any hasty and uninformed decisions."

"I'm sorry, who is this 'we' you speak of?"

"Can it, Santana." She is going to have to work extra hard in the next two days to get the girls ready with choreography and even costumes but it'll be worth it to prove her goddamned point.

Puckerman is silent, just looking at her. He has brought his arms across his chest and he looks imposing. Well, as imposing as one can be with dorkster glasses and a bird shirt (which she hates to admit it, is quite a lot). Rachel is waiting for him to say something, anything, like maybe one last insult or salvo. Instead, he crooks his own eyebrow at her and says, "Bring it."

She almost smiles. Almost. "Oh, consider it brung."


	12. Chapter 11

**AN: Thank you for all your reviews and your patience in waiting for the chapters to come around. Hey, at least we're updating right? *smiles nervously* Anyway, let us know what you think of this chapter. Real life is kinda getting us down at the moment and some love from you guys would really help make us NOT feel like shit.**

**Also, was anyone else as bummed as we were when REM announced they were breaking up? *sadface* Consider their contribution to this chapter as a sort of tribute.**

**Here we go!**

0o0o0

He's said it before and he'll say it again: Rachel Berry is a product of hell and she will stop at nothing until she's managed to kill him or at least eject him from the face of the Earth.

When everyone arrived at the choir room that Wednesday, there was no sign of Rachel and the Unholy Trinity (on a side note: how awesome a band name would that be?). For one brief, shining moment, Noah actually brightened with the possibility that she backed out of their little competition gracefully and he was free to start drilling the other glee club members on proper showface when singing Lynyrd Skynyrd. But his hopes are dashed when a low-level Cheerio scurries in and announces to all and sundry that the girls were waiting for them in the auditorium. With a shrug, Mr. Schue led them there, where they were greeted by a smirking Rachel enveloped in a robe. With a wink, she smugly told them to 'enjoy the show', before disappearing backstage.

And now, as he sits in the front row glowering (yes, there is no other word for it) at the darkened stage, he can't help thinking that _of course _this is just another way for her to ruin his life. He had spent all weekend and the last couple of days thinking about Rachel's actions and he'd reached the horrible conclusion that she was, in fact, trying to take over his club. There was no other explanation. It wasn't enough that she was the most popular girl in school, that she was feared enough no one dared go against her. She'd already invaded his club with her friends, now she also had to take the club's leadership from him.

Well, she could _try_.

The stage lights come on suddenly and reveal Rachel, Quinn, Santana and Brittany already standing onstage, the three girls lined up on one side sharing one microphone and Rachel front and center, already gripping her own retro-styled silver one. Almost immediately, everyone with a Y chromosome swallows their tongue. Because apparently when Rachel Berry put her mind to something…well, let's just say he's grateful that she's only proving a point and not putting those talents to use somewhere else. Like with nuclear weapons or something.

All four girls are wearing stylized sailor outfits in navy blue. Quinn, Santana and Brittany wear identical outfits of tight shorts trimmed in white and a midriff-bearing halter top with a red bow in the front, right between their breasts. Fishnets, red pumps and artfully askew sailor hats complete the whole look.

Rachel, on the other hand, is wearing something obviously designed to stand out from the other three (could there be any doubt as to who the star of this show is?). Her form-fitting navy blue sailor dress cut low so that the mounds of her breasts are pushed up against the collar. Three pairs of golden buttons run down her torso and a golden rope belt is wrapped low around her hips. The pleated skirt is roughly the size of a headband, leaving miles of smooth, tanned skin uncovered between the hemline of the skirt and the white knee highs, and the lines of her shapely, toned legs are tantalizingly enhanced by the black patent Mary Janes. Bright red lips, hair done in soft, pin-up style waves, and a captain's hat on top of her head finish her off. And every time she moves, Noah (and basically anyone within a 5-mile radius) would catch a glimpse of her lace boyshorts.

He gulps when he realizes that her underwear matches her lipstick.

Let him amend his previous statement: Rachel Berry is a _fucking hot_ product of hell and she will not stop until his dick falls off and he dies from frustration.

Yeah, that's a lot more accurate. Because underwear that tiny could only be classified as EVIL.

Those costumes? Awesome and terrible at the same time. Awesome, because he can see more skin than he thought was possible (_oh thank god things like this were possible),_ and fucking terrible, because there are nine other straight dudes in the room (Artie, Chang, Evans, Hudson, Mr. Schue, Brad and Band Guys #s 1, 2 and 3) and they all have fully functioning eyes, too. And knowing that they can see that handkerchief masquerading as a dress that Rachel has on is making him want to cover her with something. Like an animal sweater, maybe.

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see Sam and Mike shift awkwardly on their seats while Artie leans back in his chair, groaning his appreciation under his breath. On the other side, Mr. Schue is frozen in place, gawking, and Finn Hudson discreetly places his backpack across his lap (Fuckers, the lot of them). Oblivious to the varying degrees of male arousal in the room, Rachel starts the show. She signals the girls to get in position with their backs to the audience, leaning forward with their hands resting on their slightly bent knees, before giving the band her cue and facing away from the audience herself.

(When he gets distracted by the fact that the back view is just as good as the front, he has to stop and curse himself out for falling prey to his baser instincts of being an ass man.)

As the drums and trumpets start the music, Quinn, Santana and Brittany start moving their hips in time to the tune.

_Candyman, Candyman_

_Sweet sugar, Candyman_

One by one, the three of them turn around, whisper-singing and each adopting a unique pose, as the music picks up. Standing straight, they begin snapping their fingers and swinging their hips in unison as they provide backing vocals for Rachel. She turns around (and up flares her damn skirt) and with a sultry look on her face, she grips the base of the mic and starts singing.

_I met him out for dinner on a Friday night  
He really got me working up an appetite  
He had tattoos up and down his arm_

With little smiles on their faces (Rachel's own being teasing and coy), they run their hands up and down their arms, Rachel lingering with her actions a little more than the other three.

_There's nothing more dangerous than a boy with charm_

The girls on stage are performing like they didn't come up with this routine just two days ago. Their moves aren't rehearsed but they are in sync and they play well off each other. It's like watching a well-oiled (fucking hot) machine. He can feel his teammates getting into the performance around him, clapping and unconsciously moving their bodies to the beat. Mike Chang has been bobbing his head, moving his shoulders, and basically just dancing in his seat since the song started. Finally, he gets into the music so much that, in what Noah considers as a move that was a long time coming, he gets up and pulls a surprised Tina into an improvised jive routine right in the aisle. He pushes and pulls, spins and twirls and Tina's blue-streaked hair fans out, framing the huge smile on her face.

The impromptu dance routine gets a sharp salute from Rachel up on stage. Throughout the performance, she has been keeping her eyes mostly fixed on a single point in the distance but Noah could see her eyes flitting ever so slightly toward his direction in the front row, no doubt to assess his reaction. He doesn't know what she saw when she looked at him (and there are no signs of approval or any positive reactions at all showing on his face, that was for certain. He is a master at the poker face) but judging from the confident little smirk on her face, he is somehow giving her exactly what she wants without even knowing it._  
_  
_He's a one stop shop, makes my panties drop  
He's a sweet talkin' sugar coated candyman  
A sweet talkin' sugar coated candyman, ooh, yeah_

As if suddenly remembering it, he takes a moment to glance at Quinn dancing there up front. But he is quickly sidetracked from his inspection when he sees Hudson drooling quite literally as he stares at Rachel's legs. He has to fight the urge to fling a piano straight at the giant idiot's head to get him to look away. At least he could have the decency to stop his staring long enough to wipe the drool off his chin. Didn't anyone ever teach him to respect girls and not ogle them like they were pieces of meat? Those legs might make his own blood boil and his hands itch but Noah's not about to openly drool. He _respects_ girls. Besides, whatever objectifying he might do, he does it in private.

_He's a one stop, gotcha hot, making all the panties drop  
__(Sweet sugar Candyman)__  
He's a one stop, got me hot, making my ugh pop  
__(Sweet sugar Candyman)__  
He's a one stop, get it while it's hot, baby don't stop  
__(Sweet sugar)_

Somehow, the fog of teenage hormones lifts off his brain enough for him to analyze the performance for what it is. However enjoyable for most, the blatant sexuality and innuendo in the performance is an extremely poor choice on Rachel's part. Firstly, because Schue would never allow them to perform a song like this. On the off-chance he did (which judging by his contemplative expression, he didn't) and he managed to get the green light from Figgins at the same time, Noah would quit before competing against the best teams in the State with a performance that was nothing more than hairography with skimpier costumes and bigger boobs.

Secondly, because the only way Rache…ahem, any of the girls would ever actually hit the stage looking like a stripper would be over his dead body.

_He's a one stop shop with a real big ugh  
__(He's a sweet talkin' sugar coated candyman)__  
Say what? __(A sweet talkin' sugar coated candyman)__  
Say! __(A sweet talkin' sugar coated candyman)__  
Ooh! __(A sweet talkin' sugar coated candyman)_

_Aaaaaah!_

Rachel might be one of the most talented people he has ever met (himself NOT included), and that last note she held impossibly high made his pants just that much tighter (is it really any surprise he gets off on music?) but the show she put on was just cheap and wrong.

Which is precisely why he is sitting there in his usual spot front and center, fuming, waiting for Mr. Schue to up and tell them Rachel's performance was an aberration that should never see the light of day again. His teammates don't quite agree with him, if the hooting and hollering once the music dies down is any indication.

Glistening with sweat and panting (holy shit, the images), Rachel hops off the stage and moves over to where Schue and Noah are sitting. "Well?" she asks with an expectant smile.

_This is it_, Noah thinks pointedly looking at Mr. Schue and willing his thoughts to pierce the glee club director's brain, _this is where you tell her it was inappropriate and not fit for competition and we're going to go with my suggestion instead._

"That was just—" shaking his head, Schue stumbles on his words as he got up on his feet and clapped slowly. "Well, that was certainly a lot different than what we're used to around here! I will be thrilled to hear your suggestions for Invitationals."

Rachel smiles a bright, accomplished smile and curtsies prettily as the other girls giggle and celebrate. The renewed applause from the rest of the team at this announcement starts to die down when, one by one, every member of New Directions turns toward a very still Noah, looking at him expectantly. Waiting for his reaction.

He can only imagine what they are seeing. He sits back on his chair, one leg crossed over the other, his calf over his knee. His arms are crossed over his chest and he can feel the muscles on his neck and shoulders tense up. His teammates are regarding him with morbid fascination and something akin to dread, so he allows himself to enjoy it for a split second. Pity, envy, annoyance, repulsion – those were feelings he is used to inspiring in others within the confines of WMHS. Dread? Not so much. It almost feels like respect.

Almost.

He keeps his eyes trained on Rachel as he carefully sorts through his thoughts. She won't meet his gaze though, she just stands there looking bored and defiant, staring at a point somewhere above his shoulder. But then again he's noticed she's been actively trying to avoid looking at him in the eye since Monday. It's annoyingly insulting, to be honest.

There is so much he wants to say about her performance but in the state he's in, he doubts he'll be able to cover all of his points in a calm and civilized manner. Besides, from the looks of it, the rest of the club, including Mr. Schue, love the show. Never mind that Rachel did precisely what she'd accused him of when he presented his list: she chose a song that best featured her and her voice to the detriment of her companions. At least when he painstakingly prepared his setlist, he took the time and effort to arrange each and every song to feature their strengths as a group and gave them a unique sound without compromising the original structure of the songs. What she did was basically an excellent rip-off: there were minimal changes in the arrangement, the choreography was nearly identical to the one on the video, and even the concept of the costumes was clearly inspired by it. There wasn't even an ounce of originality in her performance as far as he is concerned.

Very slowly, very quietly, Noah stands up and picks up his bag from under his seat. He pulls his gaze from Rachel's guarded face and looks at Mr. Schuester, who regards him with a confused frown as if he isn't sure what's about to go down.

"If you insist on a performance like this for competitions, we will be disqualified and you know it. Figgins will keep a closer eye on us and the only songs we'll be allowed to sing will come from a pre-approved list given by the Board of Education. I doubt they'll include Journey, or even any remotely cool, non-Christian song, to be honest. You should think about that before you make any decisions."

"Please," he hears Rachel snort and he turns sharply to glare at her. "The only reason you're pissed is because _I_ won and you didn't."

Noah grits his teeth, following her with his eyes as Rachel sashays towards a vacant seat and plops down (he's only mildly distracted by the most recent flash of panty but he automatically stores the image away for later inspection). "If you want to win," she goes on in a deceptively calm tone as she inspects her manicure. "You're going to have to learn to share the spotlight. The whole world doesn't revolve around you and your talent."

"Oh but it revolves around you and your ass then?" he snaps coolly, dragging shocked gasps from nearly everyone else in the room. "I mean, it's a nice ass, and we all enjoyed the sight of your panties, didn't we guys?" he sarcastically smirks and glances at the others. "But I highly doubt you putting yourself out there looking like _that_," he looks her up and down, openly leering and feeling like a jackass all the while, "is going to make us win any competition."

The crestfallen look on Rachel's face has an unexpected effect on him. He's already disgusted with himself for basically forgetting the 'always respect girls' motto his moms have taught him since he was born, but knowing he actually managed to hurt her with his words, _intentionally _hurt her at that, effectively makes him feel like the lowest piece of shit in the planet.

He only vaguely hears Mr. Schuester's angry voice sending him to the principal's office, but he leaves the choir room and heads to Figgins' office nonetheless.

It's absolutely crazy, he thinks, that he can be simultaneously turned on, pissed off and apologetic, all because of the same person.

(Only when he zones out during Figgins' long winded speech does he realize that he barely even spared a glance at Quinn during the performance. He dredges up with some effort a vague image of blonde hair and a sailor's cap, whereas he can picture Rachel in her captain costume whenever he so much as closes his eyes.)

0o0o0

Being the son of a teacher and having a squeaky clean record does come with its benefits. Figgins went on and on for at least half an hour about how disappointed he was about Noah's behavior and how it was uncalled for, even if Rachel was intentionally pushing his buttons. Noah didn't argue. He knew very well he had been way out of line and was fully prepared to fulfill his punishment. But since his Mom was single-handedly responsible for the case full of trophies down the hall and this was his first infraction, Noah was sent on his way with a slap on the wrist and a warning.

No, seriously – Figgins literally slapped his wrist.

He won't fool himself though. He's sure his moms would be far less cavalier about the situation when he got home.

So in an effort to delay that moment as much as possible (he so hated to disappoint his moms) he takes his time walking back to the auditorium from Figgins' office. The glee club should all have left the premises; in fact, he doubts that there's anybody still in the building except Figgins, the janitors, and himself. But he'd left his guitar there and he very well couldn't leave without his baby.

The school is quiet and peaceful and, as he's pretty sure things at home would anything but, he decides to stay for a while longer, work a bit more on his music, maybe make some sense of why he'd reacted the way he reacted to Rachel's performance.

But as he walks through the backstage area, he becomes aware that he isn't alone after all. There is a light coming from the stage and he could hear the faint sound of guitar playing. He stops to listen.

At first, it's just a stream of random notes and humming but then they fall into a pattern he recognizes and the humming grows to actual singing, soft, feminine, and stripped down.

_I've watched the stars fall silent from your eyes  
All the sights that I have seen  
I can't believe that I believed I wished  
That you could see  
There's a new planet in the solar system  
There's nothing up my sleeve_

Pushing aside the black drape that hides him from view in the wings, he slowly steps out. He doesn't want to scare her and he knows there's a good chance she'll stop singing if she sees him, but he just can't help himself.

Rachel is sitting on a stool a little left of center, bent over his guitar in a pose that is oddly reminiscent of times past. The amber light overhead burnishes her hair still set in soft waves but her lipstick looks like she's been gnawing it off and she has exchanged her costume for a baggy t-shirt that hangs off one shoulder and yoga pants. Once she sees him, her brown eyes widen and for a fraction of a second, her fingers falter on the strings. But she doesn't stop. She drops her eyes for a brief moment before they climb back up to meet his a little defiantly. He is amazed that she is letting him see her like this, unguarded and vulnerable. He doesn't think he deserves it.

Suddenly, he is surrounded by the smell of grass and the glare of the afternoon sun. Suddenly, he has gone back to that summer – teaching her how to correctly hold the guitar and position her fingers on the strings, watching her petite frame wrapped around his guitar with her brow clouded by a frown and her lips pursed adorably, determined to get it right.

_I'm pushing an elephant up the stairs  
I'm tossing up punchlines that were never there  
Over my shoulder a piano falls  
Crashing to the ground_

He doesn't know why he does it but without conscious thought, he moves to the drum kit, sits down on the bench and grabs the drumsticks. All the while, his eyes are fixed on Rachel's, ignoring the part of him that is immensely glad she's looking him in the eye again.

_And all this talk of time  
Talk is fine  
And I don't want to stay around_

He starts a slow steady beat on the cymbals and sees Rachel nod slightly, silently giving him her permission to join in.

_Why can't we pantomime, just close our eyes  
And sleep sweet dreams  
Me and you with wings on our feet_

They build up the tempo in sync as if they had practiced the song countless times before.

_I'm pushing an elephant up the stairs  
I'm tossing up punchlines that were never there  
Over my shoulder a piano falls  
__**Crashing to the ground**_

He'll never not be amazed by how well they sound together. Even without practice, their voices seem to find the exact point where they seem to just…meld together.

_**I'm breaking through  
I'm bending spoons  
I'm keeping flowers in full bloom  
I'm looking for answers from the great beyond**_

She takes a deep breath and breaks eye contact for the first time since he walked in the room. Her eyes are now closed and she almost looks like she's in pain.

_I want the hummingbirds, the dancing bears  
Sweetest dreams of you  
I'm looking to the stars  
I'm looking to the moon_

Rachel opens her eyes again and she's the one that searches his gaze this time and holds it.

_I'm pushing an elephant up the stairs  
I'm tossing up punchlines that were never there  
Over my shoulder a piano falls  
__**Crashing to the ground**_

_**I'm breaking through  
I'm bending spoons  
I'm keeping flowers in full bloom  
I'm looking for answers from the great beyond**_

_**I'm breaking through  
I'm bending spoons  
I'm keeping flowers in full bloom  
I'm looking for answers from the great, answers from the great,  
Answers**_

They don't say anything for a while after their voices fade out. Much to Noah's surprise, Rachel is the one to break the silence.

"Did you get detention?"

He shakes his head. "My moms will probably skin me alive when I get home though."

"Good," she replies, satisfied.

Noah nods. Then, "You sounded good. Just now. It was better than earlier. A lot better." He sees her jaw tense and her walls start to build up again, and he knows this is his only chance to say anything to her that will actually get through. He tries to explain. " I mean, you weren't presenting yourself like an object to distract everyone from seeing what's in front of them." Somehow, the words he actually wants to say remain stuck in his throat - _You were amazing right now because you were just you and nobody else._

He sees her eyes cloud with anger and her hand clenches around the neck of his guitar. He calculates she's about two seconds away from going after him, swinging the instrument like a Louisville slugger. He needs to make this quick. "Okay look, maybe you're right. Maybe I do have a problem with sharing the spotlight. But you have a problem with letting people see you. All that – the tough girl/sexpot image, the glitter, the trappings – is a distraction. You don't need it. We don't need it."

She doesn't say anything, but the way she holds herself, sitting ramrod straight in her seat and the way she is chewing on her lower lip again, however, tells him that she heard everything he said (and didn't say).

He's probably pushing his luck, but seeing her with his guitar, watching her play and listening to the music she created, he can't ignore it. "You remembered. How to play, I mean."

She shrugs. "Kinda hard not to. You may be a lot of things but you're still a good teacher."

He feels a blush coming on and there's nothing he can do to stop it. He knows he's a good teacher; his students and their parents tell him all the time. He doesn't need her validation to feel good about himself. He _doesn't_. "Thanks."

He moves away from the drum kit, leaving the sticks over the bench where he'd found them, desperately trying to hide his face. But Rachel surprises him a second time when she continues the conversation.

"I never knew you played drums."

It's on the tip of his tongue to say there's a lot she doesn't know about him, but he doesn't want to antagonize her today. He likes this little bubble they're in right now and he knows the moment one of them leaves the room, that bubble is going to burst and reality will rush in and once again they'll be two kids who were once friends but now couldn't stand each other.

"It's not my favorite," he confesses. "But being musically well-rounded is key to my future as an artist and I need to be able to play as many instruments as possible. I stay away from wind instruments though; I could never get the knack of them. Except the harmonica. I like that one. I tried talking Mr. Schue into incorporating it in one of my solos last year but he wasn't open to the idea. You'd think he would be, considering Journey used it in several songs but I can tell you're not listening to me but who could blame you, after all here I am talking about nothing in particular and God why can't I just stop myself—"

He's cut off by Rachel's sudden bark of laughter. Being laughed at is nothing new to him but he can tell there's no malice in her hilarity. It's just good spirited mirth and he joins her in a matter of seconds, if a little nervously at first.

If this is not the weirdest day in history, then it's surely in the top five. He's laughing with Rachel Berry after singing with her in a remarkably intimate way and criticizing her performance. Before that, he was sent to the principal's office for inappropriate language and even before that, he was alternately consumed by anger and arousal. All because of her.

What the hell is going on with him?

Their laughter dies out after a little while and with a deep breath, Rachel stands from her chair and returns his guitar to its case. Without saying anything, she moves across the stage to where he's standing and hands it to him. "You shouldn't leave your guitar behind every time you storm out. You never know what'll happen to it."

He takes the case from her, nodding. The air between them has changed once again, this time for real, and he can practically _hear_ the bubble burst.

Noah sees the play of emotions on Rachel's face as she puts herself back together before they part ways and pretend none of this ever happened. "You know this doesn't make us friends, right?"

_This_ – meaning singing and talking and laughing together. Basically really seeing each other for the first time since freshman year started.

"Right."

With one last nod, she walks past him. He watches her go like he did back when she first slushied him and he feels the cold grip of fear in his gut. "Rachel," he calls out and she stops on the last step leading down the stage. "What you said the other day, about fighting me for the club captaincy… can you not do it? Please?"

She doesn't turn around, doesn't say a word. He's left with his heart hammering inside his chest like it wants to burst out and his ears ringing.

"You have the cheerios and popularity and friends… All I have is glee club, and they don't even like me all that much. I'm willing to change. I'll share the spotlight, I won't fight your suggestions, within reason, and I'll work with you and the others. Just please don't take this away from me. You have other things in this school. This is all I have."

She nods mutely after a moment and hefts her bag in one hand to leave. As she walks away, he realizes one important: that no matter how hard he tries, he is ultimately cursed to always feel something for this girl. And he doesn't know what to do about it anymore.

0o0o0

**Review, please? C'mon, you know you want to…**

**Legend (both for **_**Candyman**_** by Christina Aguilera and **_**The Great Beyond**_** by REM):**

_- Italics – solo (Rachel)_

_**- Bold – duet with Noah**_

_- __Underlined__ – backing vocals by Quinn, Santana and Brittany_


	13. Chapter 12

**A/N: First of all, we would like to apologize to all of you for making you wait so long for this chapter. Truth be told, both of us are dealing with serious stuff and as much as we would like to dedicate more time to writing, we really just can't. Hopefully there're still some of you out there not too mad at us and still interested in reading this story.**

**Oh! I almost forgot. As you may have noticed, we reached the 250 reviews mark (*cough*and passed it*cough*) so we decided to write a little oneshot with a missing scene from this fic dedicated to forevermagic, our 250th reviewer. So keep an eye out and thank you guys so much. We wouldn't be here if it weren't for our wonderful readers and your encouraging words.**

* * *

The music stops abruptly, the deep bass beats of the song still echoing against the polished wooden floors. There is a tickle along her spine as a bead of sweat trickles down but she ignores it, putting all of her concentration into arching her back, extending her leg, and smiling the biggest fucking smile on the planet. One doesn't maintain a perfect bow and arrow on top of a 3-high pyramid while surrounded by fire dancers on stilts and sword swallowers without a little effort. She doesn't need to look at the rest of her team to know that they are putting on the performance of their lives. Not one limb is out of place, not one smile anything less than Crest-perfect, not one quivering muscle in the bunch. Finally, the metallic hiss of a bullhorn cuts through the expectant silence and then—

"Pathetic inbred muppets! I've had more excitement coming from a bowl of Rice Krispies! Do it AGAIN! Becky! Cue the music!"

Well, so much for perfect. Rachel huffs an exasperated breath, dislodging a piece of confetti (from the 10 confetti cannons that exploded overhead at the climax of their routine, of course) that was stuck to her sodden bangs. She drops down quickly and watches the rest of her teammates wearily move out of formation to wait for the music to start again. If she had any reason to hate Katy Perry before, she certainly had now. There is only so much of "California Gurls" that a sane human being is supposed take.

Now she admires Coach Sylvester's dedication, even identifies with it at times, but – and she says this with respect and appreciation – bitch be cray-cray.

When her superhuman hearing catches one Cheerio's muffled groan of exhaustion, Sue trains her eyes on the poor unfortunate soul and barks out, "You think this is hard? Try birthing a hernia – that's hard!"

See what she means? Seriously, this had to stop. The gym looks more like the set of some shitty war movie than a cheerleading practice. The hefty ginger from 4th period chem is in a fetal position in the corner, the sword swallowers are crying in sporadic bursts and if she looks over, she can be sure to catch Quinn kneeling on the practice mat and muttering the Lord's Prayer. She gets it, really she does; Nationals are in a month, the Cheerios are the reigning champs, there's bound to be some pressure on Coach Sylvester. She just wishes that pressure didn't translate into making half of the squad want to kill themselves (and the other half want to move to Canada. Voluntarily.)

"Coach Sylvester, if I may?" she ventures calmly. "We're exhausted. We've practiced this routine backwards and forwards, we can do it in our sleep. Hell, we've gone over it so many times, Rose lost enough weight that she can't even bring herself to throw up anymore."

Sue narrows her blue eyes at her squad's co-captain. "What's your point, rockstar?"

"My point is we could all stand to take a break."

"A _break_?" Judging by the look on Sue's face, one would think Rachel had suggested quitting and joining the glee club (oh wait…) "Do you know who takes breaks, Rocky? _Communists!_"

Rachel rolls her eyes openly in response and crosses her arms defiantly. "Look, you can drive us to the ground practicing the shit out of this. You can make us practice it until we puke…again, in Rose's case. My point is you're not gonna get much more out of us today except a soggy bowl of Rice Krispies." She punctuates this with a smirk. "Besides, if you cut practice now and let us go home, it'll give you more time to think up some new, inventive, completely out of this world routine that will most likely kill us. I mean, you _are _Sue Sylvester."

"That is true," the older woman muses. She pauses for a moment to think about it but Rachel knows she has her. "Fine. Weaklings, you have 20 seconds to get out of my sight! Tomorrow, I want you all here for 6 am practice. And bring your helmets!"

It would be hilarious seeing how fast frantic cheerleaders could move if she wasn't one of them. Rachel starts moving towards the locker room with the rest of the lemmings.

"You do know she'll probably end up shooting us out of cannons next," says a bored voice to her right. She looks to see Santana, sweaty, tired but still all bitchfaced out.

"We'll cross that bridge when we get there. Just be thankful she didn't bring out the unicycles and the midgets this time," Rachel says as she works out the kinks from her neck. She so needs a drink, a man, or a massage. Hell, she needs a drunken massage from a man.

"Unicycles are bad. Snap the Magic Clam doesn't like the chafing," grouses Brittany in her signature monotone.

From Rachel's other side, Quinn looks at her all confused and mouths, _Snap the Magic Clam?_ To which she replies, "Her miraculous hoo-ha."

Quinn's eyebrows rise almost to her hairline. "Aaand I think that's our cue to hit the showers. Coming, B?" she calls out as Rachel turns to retrieve her hoodie from the sidelines.

Before she can say anything, she is stopped by a vision in a red tracksuit. "Rocky," says Sue, eyebrow arched at her star Cheerio. "A word?"

Shrugging her shoulders in reply to her friends' wordless questions, she falls in step with her cheerleading coach on the way to the woman's office (aka Where Sanity Went To Die). The walk is short and not once on the way there does Sue say anything. Once they reach the room lined from top to bottom with trophies, Sue situates herself in her enormous chair and stares at her over steepled fingers. Rachel slides into the seat opposite and stares back, resisting the urge to squirm. She has been in this office many, many times, and in many different capacities (which 83% of the time wasn't even remotely related to cheerleading) but this is perhaps the first time that she doesn't know why she's sitting in the Chair of Doom.

"One week ago," Sue starts in her usual maddeningly calm murmur, "someone came in and told me some very disturbing news. You can imagine my surprise when that little birdie told me that my rockstar, the captain of my squad, up and joins the root of all evil and the very antithesis of what we stand for –" At this, her eyes widen to comic proportions and she hisses the last word out like it's a curse, "_Glee_."

Rachel cringes but doesn't say a thing. After a pause in which she sizes up her audience, Sue continues. "Normally, this is grounds for immediate loss of captaincy and demotion to chess club mascot. Fortunately for you, I've found out your reasons for joining glee and while I am not entirely happy with things, I have decided to forgive you for this horrendous error of judgment. Now, my question to you is – what is taking you so long?"

Rachel blinks, feeling as if she missed something. "I'm sorry, what?"

"Let's not play games, Rocky. The young grasshopper I nurtured in the arts of manipulation and blackmail would have annihilated this pathetic excuse for a club in three days and had time to bake me cookies. It's already been a week. Don't tell me you've lost your touch?"

"I wasn't planning on taking down the club, Coach," she explains, her forehead knotting in confusion.

Sue barks out a laugh, surprising her. "Come on, seriously. Why else would you have joined up?"

"Um, because Principal Figgins would have expelled me if I didn't?"

"Do you actually think I'm going to believe that you're in this situation because you got _caught_? Please, I think I know my own protégé better than tha—" Sue's shark-like grin melts off with the reality of the situation mirrored in Rachel's solemn face. "Oh my Gingrich."

Silence reigns in the office for several uncomfortable minutes. Fucking uncomfortable minutes, if one asks Rachel. Even the teeny metal cheerleaders mounted on the various trophies are judging her with their teeny metallic eyes. Finally, with a hard glare and a shake of her golden head, Sue snaps. "I'm very disappointed in you, Rocky. Shame is coming out of your supernaturally enlarged pores and it's making me want to vomit. Have you learned nothing from me? What's the first thing I ever taught you girls?"

"Um, irrational terror makes babies grow?"

"No!"

"Perms are the instruments of the devil?"

"No! God, have you not been listening?" Sue's hard eyes are boring into Rachel's and she's half expecting lasers to come out of them, to be honest. "It's that winners never get caught. Losers…now those are the ones going around 'making amends' or 'paying for their mistakes' or 'taking responsibility'. Have you not learned from the wisdom of Charlie Sheen?" she asks, throwing her hands up in the air.

"Worse than that, you haven't even taken advantage of the opportunity to annihilate that band of losers once and for all. And don't think I don't know about you dragging another three of my Cheerios in with you. You could take Schuester and the rest of them down while in a full nelson and not even break a sweat," Sue accuses, pointing an accusatory finger at Rachel like some self-righteous superhero of psychosis and Adidas sportswear. "Which makes me wonder…what's stopping you?"

No words. She quite literally has no words. A lump in her throat, an ache in her head, and quite possibly symptoms of a stroke, yes but an explanation? Hell no. She knows everything her coach has just said is pretty much true. Taking down glee club would have been nothing more than a quaint after-school project. As for expulsion, she would have found some way around that eventually (there's a reason why she knows the names, addresses and personal details of all the members of the Ohio State Board of Education and no, it's not because it presented an intellectual challenge). But as for why glee club isn't a smoldering pile of ashes by now…she has no answer.

(The voice in her head that tells her that she does have one – just not one she wanted to admit – is ruthlessly gagged and shoved in the back, underneath a pile of memories from the two years she had braces and basically the entirety of her life before she was 8.)

Taking in her silence as an admission of guilt, Sue snorts in disgust. "I can't even look at you right now. What happened to you? This –" she sneers, indicating the younger woman with a sweep of her hand, "this isn't the Rocky I know and to be honest, I don't think I like what you've become."

Before she knows it, the impact of the door slamming behind her has the glass trophy cases lining the hallway rattling and she is left staring at her reflection in…confusion? Shellshock? All of the above? Fuck, she's not even sure how she ended up leaving the room in the first place. Shaking her head, she walks away from Sue's office as fast as her exhausted legs can take her. Insane, the woman is clearly insane, and the farther away she can get from her, the better.

(And maybe, if she tried, she'd outrun everything in her head as well.)

* * *

"Dad? Danny? Anyone home?" Rachel calls out (or rather, sputters out around the mail she has clamped in her mouth). The phone has been ringing nonstop since she got to the front door and if anything annoyed her more (other than a certain person with initials NP), it was the shrill sound of a ringing phone. In the end, it becomes this embarrassing race to get the door open as she juggles her bags and her keys, sidesteps the hallway runner, and dives to answer the phone. And just as her hand touches the handset (right after her head almost collides with the table but just before she stubs her toe on it), the phone stops ringing.

Of fucking course.

Wincing, she manages to rein in the rest of her cursing directed at the stupid table leg and the stupid phone and the stupid caller and the whole fucking stupid day. After the 3rd parent-teacher conference about Danny's interesting vocabulary choices, a little censorship was in order (well, at least until he was 13 and then it was open season). But given the fact that the house is dark and silent (and, knowing her brother and father very well, NOT smelling like something died and burned at the same time), she guesses that they're both still out, doing whatever father-son bonding thing they did on Saturdays. It probably involved fishing or farting. Or maybe even both. Whatever the reason, the situation works for her because today, she needs some serious alone time and she needs it now. Extended Cheerio practice was more brutal than usual and Coach was at her meanest. Thank god none of them knows German or she would've fired poor Brittany out of her new cannon. Until Sylvester finds someone to read the owner's manual, Rachel has some precious time to either find out a way to talk her out of it or personally dismantle the cannon. But not now. Now she's going to relax and unwind and forget about absolutely everything except her own comfort.

5 minutes later, she has toed off her sneakers, cued episode 1 of _The Walking Dead_ on the player, and called China Buffet for the usual (sweet and sour pork, chicken egg rolls, and chow mein). And for the piece de resistance, there is a nice big bathtub that is practically calling her and begging to be filled with some honeysuckle bubble bath. Yup, this whole day's stress doesn't stand a chance. No cheerleading routines, no psychotic coaches, no glee club, no thoughts about…no thoughts at all. It's fucking Zen, that's what it is.

Then the harsh ring of the phone cuts through her haze and she wants to scream.

Seriously, did people not get the memo about not disturbing her Zen-Relaxation-So-I-Don't-Go-Around-Stabbing-People Hour? If it's some telemarketer selling aluminum siding, she is so going to cut a bitch. Stomping her way to the living room, she snatches up the receiver violently and growls out her "Hello" (which is basically as civil as she's going to get at this point).

At first, all she can hear at is silence. The silence takes so long that, for a moment, she thinks she's been hung up on (yeah, _really_ doing anything for her rage issues). Frustrated, she warns, "Okay, whoever you are, if you're not gonna fucking say anything, you're wasting my time and I'm hanging up right now."

Finally, a somewhat familiar voice cuts through her thoughts. "Is this Rachel?"

"This is her," she replies suspiciously. "Who's calling?"

Again, silence. "Who's calling?" she repeats sharply. She doesn't mean to be rude (okay, lie – she _totally_ means to be rude) but something about the voice is rubbing her the wrong way. Her entire body tenses up and her heart pounds violently and she has the completely unexpected and irrational urge to hang up and run away.

"Hi baby, it's mom."

"Mom?" The word is so alien a concept that it takes her an entire minute to process it. In some corner of her mind, Rachel is aware that it is her mother on the other end (_Shelby, you have to remember to call her Shelby…_) and that she has started talking. She listens to the woman's voice, warm and effusive, forming normal, everyday sentences – things like 'I wasn't sure it was you at first" and "It's so good to hear your voice' and 'How are you?' – but sounding so bizarre coming from this woman that Rod Serling might as well pop in and tell her she's screwed. Shouldn't there be some guide for this sort of situation? Why the hell hadn't Judy Blume covered this shit? And what the fuck is she supposed to say to this woman? _Hey, Mommy dearest! How've you been? Finally figured out how to use a phone, have you? Only took you 9 fucking years._

"I'm fine…mom," she manages to reply. Little by little, that old familiar rage and pain starts blossoming in her chest again, expanding and increasing. This is the woman who left them and ran away. What the hell was she doing calling? What if Rachel wasn't the one who picked up the phone? What if it was her dad or worse – Danny? She can't even imagine what they would do, how they would react, and the mere thought of Shelby coming in and ruining everything again makes Rachel want to reach in through the telephone line and strangle the other woman.

Belatedly, she realizes that Shelby has been talking the entire time she has been quietly seething. Fuck, the woman's practically carrying on a conversation with herself. (Typical. To hear Shelby talk, the world would end before it stopped revolving around her.) Rachel finally tunes in and catches the tail end of her mother's monologue. "…and so I think spring break would be the perfect time for you and Danny to come visit. You'll love it, I promise. LA is wonderful that time of year plus our house has a pool and Jacuzzi."

For a minute, she forgets all her anger and settles for confusion. "LA? As in California?"

Shelby laughs lightly. "Oh honey, is there any other? It would help if you get here at least a week before the wedding for fittings and rehearsal and of course, you have to meet Stan."

"Stan?"

"Well, it would be weird for my fiancé not to meet the two of you before the wedding!" Shelby continues. "I think you guys would really hit it off. He's a wonderful screenwriter, though he's done mostly TV movies – Lifetime, Hallmark, I'm not really sure which. Oh and he calls me his muse, which is probably the sweetest thing anyone's ever said about me. You really must come, honey. It'll be like a fresh start for all of us."

The anger inside her chest is on its way to bursting into a mushroom cloud. "Wait. Lemme get this straight," she says in a low, calm voice. "You're calling, out of the fucking blue, to invite me to your _wedding_?"

"Well, not just you, sweetie. You can bring your brother, too," her erstwhile mother (she prefers the term 'incubator', really) says.

Rachel bites back any number of harsh replies to that. The effort of reining herself in is making even her hair hurt. "And does Stan the Magnificent know about us?"

"Oh hush! Of course he does. We tell each other _everything_" – at this Rachel snorts in abject disbelief – "and he doesn't mind, really. He loves children. In fact, this may be the right time to tell you my other piece of news."

Anything has got to be better than this. "Go on."

"Well, the reason I want you to come to LA is not just for the wedding." Shelby clears her throat, "I want you to come meet my daughter."

For a moment, Rachel thinks that she imagined the words her mother just said, that maybe it was just product of dehydration or temporary psychosis. But when Shelby continues talking, she realizes that it is all too real. "Some time ago, I realized that my life here, while fulfilling, was missing something and I realized that I wanted a family. I wanted to be a mother. And when I first saw her little face staring at me, it was like lightning struck. I knew that this child needed a mother and that mother was me. That was two years ago and now, looking at her everyday makes me realize just how precious this gift is and how this role was something I was destined to play."

"'A precious gift'? 'She needed a mother'?" Rachel parrots the words in incredulity. JFC, this woman is unbelievable. "And what exactly were me and Danny? What about us?"

"Oh, honey," Shelby sighs wistfully. "That was a long time ago. It was all a mistake but we're past it now. Besides, you grew up just fine. And I think this time, I'm getting it right. This time, it _is_ right. I hope you can understand that."

Her world explodes into red with what she is hearing. Wow, she's glad someone's _past it_ because some days, it takes a hell of an effort to forget that she grew up motherless for the past decade or so. And the bitch better not talk about her growing up 'just fine'. She wouldn't know because _she was never there_! Right now, she just wants to take all the rage she has and physically hurl it at Shelby. She wants to curse and scream and basically make her feel as bad or even worse than she does (she so wants to know how to do that, someone please tell her how to do that). But instead, the hurt and fury inside of her violently bursts and all she is left with is an open, festering wound that she thought had long healed. All her words, all the things she is dying to say to this woman – they are stuck somewhere in the vicinity of her heart, squeezing it in a vice grip. After so many years of building her walls and strengthening her armor, she never thought it would come to this. She never thought that her mother still had the power to break her again.

"Honey, are you there?"

Rachel knows that her mother is waiting for a reply. Most likely, she wants a heartwarming and canned response that would have a sitcom audience in teary smiles, all acceptance and unicorns and fluffy kittens puking rainbows. She wants Rachel to say that yeah, it's okay that you left us all those years ago just so you can play mommy to some other person's kid now. It's completely okay.

Bullshit.

Fortunately, Rachel is saved from saying anything by the ringing of the doorbell. Ah, Chinese takeout man – her unlikely hero. She attempts to speak once, twice, before she finally clears the lump from her throat. "I have to go now. My chow mein is here," she grits out. With that, she hangs up and hangs her head. God-fucking-dammit.

The doorbell rings again and she releases some pent-up aggression by growling at the direction of the door. Not like the dude behind it can hear her but it sure as hell is making her feel a little better. Shaking out her limbs in attempt to erase the tension her own fucking mother put there, she repeats a calming mantra on her way to the front door – _This does not affect me. She does not affect me. I am strong. I have no emotions. I am a big, blank brick wall._

She thinks she has the Zen thing down pat when something stops her in her tracks just before she opens the door. It's only something she sees everyday: her own face reflected in the large mirror hanging in the hallway. The image – long, wavy brown hair with a bit of a fringe, big brown eyes rimmed by long eyelashes carefully groomed with mascara, prominent Jewish nose front and center, slightly pouty mouth, tiny mole on her cheek, olive skin – is nothing special. But right now, she can see something else staring right back at her.

She can see Shelby Corcoran.

Her mother, who was her childhood idol, whose wants were Rachel's own wants.

Who insisted on voice lessons, piano lessons, classes in ballet, tap, ballroom dance, acting and gymnastics so that Rachel could be 'a star just like her'.

Who taught her the art of the showface, the stage laugh, the fake tears and the minutiae of Broadway. Who made her life, until the time she was seven, one long training montage set to Barbra Streisand.

Who took pains to make Rachel into her own clone, her little mini-me.

Who cared about nothing else but ShelbyShelbyShelby.

And who ended up being a selfish bitch who had no qualms about running and abandoning her own family.

She is her mother's daughter and the thought pains her more than she would care to admit. Suddenly, the whole entire day, from the stress of practice to Sue to Shelby, is pressing down on her. Her chest tightens and every breath is an effort. She scrunches her eyes shut and clutches at the nearby doorknob for stability when there is a loud knocking, almost scaring her out of her skin.

"Um, hello? Anyone home? I have a delivery from China Buffet!"

Wrenching the door open, she meets the frazzled eyes of the pimply delivery boy. They widen as he recognizes her, most likely from school, and he gulps. "R-R-Rachel…I-I didn't know you lived here. Um, you have—"

She interrupts him, "I have to go." Slamming the door, she abruptly pushes past him in a near-run, making him sputter in surprise.

"B-B-But your egg rolls!"

She stops suddenly to fish around the pocket of her shorts for some cash before throwing it at him (Is it a ten? A twenty? A fifty? She doesn't care anymore). "Here," she says shortly. "Dinner's on me."

Breaking into a run, she is practically half a block away when he stutters out a 'Thanks'. She doesn't hear him. She isn't really paying much attention to anything at all. Not to the surprised shouts of the few people she runs into, not the barking of the neighbor's 4 dogs, not to the fatigued burning of her thighs. The only thought in her mind is the need for air, for space…for escape.

And so she runs. She runs without stopping, without thinking. She runs with her legs pumping and her lungs burning, subconsciously hoping that the physical ache would override the heartache. She runs past the middle school and the grocery, past the hospital and the post office, over bridge and over dale. She runs, avoiding cyclists and baby carriages, ignoring honking cars and screeching tires. She runs all the way to one end of town, to the lake on Schoonover Park, where the sight of the end of the road and the water's edge makes her stop and drop to the ground. Surrounded by the knee-high grass, with all the emotions of the entire day and the strain of her abused muscles collapsing around her ears, Rachel finally allows herself to cry.

She's making enough noise to scare away whatever wildlife is around. She would be embarrassed about it and she'd never live it down if someone actually saw her but frankly, she doesn't give a flying fuck anymore.

She doesn't know how long she stays there before she hears the lapping of the water and the curious clunk of something hitting the ground. Wiping her eyes swiftly (and unknowingly smearing dirt over her cheek), she looks up and is treated to the sight of a sweaty Noah Puckerman staring at her with concern.

"Rachel," he says softly, hesitating in his steps like she is some wild animal that's about to bolt. "Are you okay?"

She almost laughs at the question. It is on the tip of her tongue to tell him that no, she is the furthest from okay that she has ever been. In fact, she finds herself wanting to tell him every damn thing. It surprises her, this need to confide in him. It is only the tiny bit of control she has left that is stopping her from spilling her guts out to this boy she once called friend.

Instead, she retreats into her old shell. "What are you doing here, Puckerman?" she counters harshly, avoiding his gaze.

He sounds a little taken aback at her tone when he replies. "I practice rowing here every weekend." At this, she finally notices the source of the sound earlier – an old, long racing boat that he managed to run aground near the spot where she sat. "But considering I'm not the one crying and hiding in the grass, I think I should be asking you that question."

The boy had a point. A very good point. Still, she doesn't answer and instead continues staring mutinously at the horizon. An unexpected thump beside her makes her turn abruptly to her left and watch in shock as he casually sits himself on the ground. "You're not leaving," she blurts out, her surprise managing to bypass her internal censor.

In response, he merely ticks an eyebrow at her and she is reminded of how much he knows, how much they shared in one summer years ago.

She tilts her head back and sighs, weighing her options. In a split-second, she makes her decision. "It's my mom," she starts. "After how many fucking years that she doesn't call, doesn't even send birthday cards, not even a 'hi-how-are-you-glad-you're-still-alive', she calls me because she's getting married. Not only that, she wants me in the wedding because apparently, that's what we do in this after-school special that is my life. And to top it all off with an extra dose of what-the-fuckery, she adopted a kid. Apparently, a few years after she left us, she realized that she wanted to be a mommy. So boom! Brand-new life, brand-new daughter. Never mind that she left two kids behind. And all I keep thinking about is was it really so easy for her? To just forget us, replace us? Wait, what am I saying?" she chuckles bitterly. "Of course it was. She didn't have any problems leaving us in the first place, right?"

To his credit, he doesn't say a word in response. She shuts her eyes against the understanding she can see in his eyes and tries to keep on talking. "It's like we were nothing to her. We were a 'mistake'." She falls silent again before taking a deep breath. "Goddammit, I wish I had never answered that phone. And I just stood there paralyzed like a fucking idiot, listening to her. There are so many things I wanted to say, things I've kept inside me all these years and always thought I would tell her if I ever got the chance, and I just choked like a fucking bitch." She swallows the knot on her throat, her fists balled at her sides. "And I'm so angry, at her, at myself for allowing her to break me again...this whole thing is just…AAAAAAAUGH!" She ends up screaming her frustration into the darkening sky while he sits there just listening to her.

By the time she screams herself hoarse, he smiles a little at her. "Feel better?"

"Much," she croaks back before sighing and drawing her knees up to her chest. "When she left," she pauses to clear her throat. Now that she got all the facts out and shouted out her anger, all she has left is this void inside her that makes the heartache all that much worse. "When she left, she said she didn't want to be a mother, never wanted to be one…but really, she just didn't want to be _my _mother." She can feel the sob building up in her chest again. "Fuck! What's wrong with me?"

She turns her head to the other side and covers her face with her hands (again, smearing more dirt all over it) to hide the fresh wave of tears. Even though she's trying to stifle the sobs, it's really pretty obvious she's crying again.

Noah's voice is soothing as he whispers to her, even as she refuses to look at him. The weight and warmth of his hand on the middle of her back is unexpected but nice, and she doesn't flinch away, surprising the both of them. "Nothing's wrong with you. Absolutely nothing." And for a moment, she allows herself to believe him. "I completely understand where you're coming from. I—"

She whirls around to face him in a flash. "You _understand_? How can you possibly understand?" Her laugh is bitter when it finally forces its way out. "You have two moms! _Two! _And they wanted you so much, they practically genetically engineered you!"

They are silent for a while just looking at each other, her glare barely cutting through his own calm mask. Those eyes of his are boring into her when he finally speaks. "When I turned sixteen, I was allowed to contact my biological father per my moms' contract with him. He was an old college friend of theirs from the University of Texas and when I looked him up, he was still living in Austin, teaching music at UT." His face breaks into a wistful grin. "I was so excited, you know. As much as I love my parents, I always wondered how it would be like to have a dad. I eventually got up the nerve to call him and he was nice enough. I may have gone overboard with all my questions but he was very understanding. And then during spring break, I flew down to meet him and spend some time with him."

He pauses for a moment and licks his lips. Hanging on every word he says, she's _this_ close to slapping his arm to get him to go on with his story. After a while, he continues. "The first time I saw him and realized where I came from was a great feeling. In fact, the first few days were amazing. I felt like I actually had a dad and it was different but wonderful. And when he told me that he had a family of his own, with a wife and two kids, I was ecstatic. I had a brother and a sister. I wasn't alone anymore. On my last day, I asked him when I was going to meet the rest of the family. He stopped and he stared at me for a long time. Then he proceeded to tell me that it was better for all involved if I didn't meet them because it might confuse his 'real' kids and that while the whole time we spent together was nice, it would be better if I didn't contact him again. I wasn't his 'real' son because he already had one of those and he wasn't my 'real' dad either." He licks his lips again, a nervous tic she recognizes. "And for the longest time, I wondered if maybe it had something to do with me. That maybe I was too annoying or I wasn't special enough. But it didn't have anything to do with me and it has nothing to do with you either."

His words have long been carried away by the breeze when she finally gets the guts to rest a hand on his arm in sympathy. He returns the gesture with a squeeze of her hand. Together, they sit silently on the ground as the sun slowly sets, each lost in their own thoughts.

"It's getting late," he says, abruptly breaking the peaceful silence. He gets up and offers his hand to help her. It is when he pulls her up with a surprising amount of strength that she notices the width of his shoulders and the cut of his arms in the cutoff shirt he is wearing. It's all defined muscles and tanned skin, and she suddenly feels very small next to him. Those flannel shirts he wears all the time do a pretty fantastic job of hiding what's underneath, otherwise how is it possible that she hasn't noticed how much he's grown from the skinny teen she once knew? The unexpected (but not altogether unwelcome) sight makes her shiver involuntarily and he notices. "Are you cold?"

"Yeah, a little," she lies, averting her gaze. She busies herself by brushing off dirt and grass from her clothes and it is also then that she notices her shoes. Or the lack of it. The fact that she just ran across town in her sock feet makes her smile and wince simultaneously.

When he sees what she is smiling about, he frowns at her and shakes his head. "Okay, let me just stow my boat away and then I'll drive you home. I have a sweatshirt in my jeep you can have."

She bristles almost automatically, old defenses getting back into gear. "I can take care of myself. I don't need to you drive me home. I don't need you to do anything." The return to familiar ground is comforting.

Occupied with securing stuff and doing things all boat-like, he doesn't look at her when he answers. He sounds almost bored when he says over his shoulder "I know I don't need to. But I want to." He turns to her then and looks her in the eye. "And I'm going to." His eyebrow quirks up. "Is that okay with you?"

Try as she might, she can't stop the tiny smile from blooming on her face. Same goes for the fucking blush traveling its way across her face and the mysterious tingling in her stomach. "Sure, fine, whatever." Rachel clears her throat again. What the hell is wrong with her? She doesn't know why she sounds so out of breath all of a sudden. "I think I can work with that."

* * *

**Don't forget to leave a review! ;)**


	14. IMPORTANT AUTHOR'S  NOTE

Hello, everyone. It is with a sad and heavy heart that I would like to announce my indefinite leave from writing. This would mean that this story, **the planets bend between us**, will be placed on hiatus. A number of factors have contributed to this decision, including the death of my father and the sudden disappearance of my friend and co-author, maggiequeen. I hope to return to finish the stories I have started but until that time, I can only thank you for your support. I wish all of you well and may you have a happier year ahead.

Much love,

Lori (joker to the thief)


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